Chapter Text
The lake shimmered like a forgotten gem, raw and uncut; a relic of an age long past resonating with the dark weight of the castle above. Athalie wished to etch the purity of this moment into her mind, as one marks a page in a book read with fervent passion; it brought to mind the fleeting nature of existence.
And she thought, we are born today but forgotten tomorrow; yet what we do leaves its mark upon the world, calling out from the grave to capture the notice of those who will never know our names.
Athalie recalled the First Men; of their weirwoods carved with faces, silent witnesses to every word exchanged beneath their ancient trees. To nature’s slow, unyielding triumph over the stone walls of lords’ fortresses. And to those long-lost songs, scattered upon the winds of time, whose melodies would never grace her ears.
She felt a sudden and crushing loneliness. The ground beneath her feet seemed to vanish, as though the withered grass were being swallowed by a gaping abyss that threatened to claim her as well. Those she loved were gone, and she knew they would not return.
Athalie had felt her heart turn to ice the day her father, his face worn and heavy with resignation, announced the start of the war; the world had lost its colors.
She watched him ride away with her brother Basile, bound to serve a king he could never truly esteem. He did so not for duty alone, but for love of his own blood—for Oswell Whent had sworn his vows to Aerys Targaryen’s Kingsguard in his youth, never knowing what his service would one day cost him.
And Walter had been left unaware, by his daughter’s silence, that his brother was no longer in the palace but in the company of Prince Rhaegar. Guilt gnawed at her, sharp and unrelenting, but the moment to speak had already passed.
Athalie vividly remembered the sight of her father mounting his horse, his eyes dim and his hands clenched tightly around the reins. Now, she had lost him and three of her brothers, the youngest of whom had not yet seen his eighth name day.
“To die in battle is the noblest death one can hope for,” Lister had written to her upon his departure as the squire of Lord Alyn, who had also taken up arms for the royalists. His wish was granted, for he never returned from the war; his body still not sent back to Harrenhal.
In the following weeks, Lord Walter Whent was captured by Robert Baratheon’s men and executed for his treason against his Lord Paramount. Her brother Basile, who had been overjoyed to have been chosen as a squire by their father, was spared—though he languished in a cold, damp cell, his fate no less grim for the chains that bound him.
And as for young Symon and Patrek, the youngest of her brothers, their lives were claimed not by steel, but by fever.
Patrek was the first to fall, his frail constitution offering little resistance. No one gave thought to contagion, not then. But days after young Pat’s passing, Symon also took ill, burning with fever—his small body wracked with the same dreadful cough. He also withered away in his bed, his breath stolen by the sickness that claimed him barely a few moons after their father’s departure. They were no more than fourteen and eight years old.
And Athalie had also lost her love, the one to whom she had never been able to say farewell. She clung desperately to her memories, recalling his gentle eyes and earnest laughter. Yet she could no longer wish for Ned's victory, not now that her family had declared themselves his enemies. Even so, it did not keep her from chasing every morsel of news with frantic urgency. She both hoped for his triumph and dreaded it—but above all, she prayed for his survival. For she could not imagine a world without him in it.
The evening’s chill made her shiver as a voice echoed behind her and the frail, weary figure of her mother caught her eye. Athalie froze as she watched Shella draw near, her lips pressed tight and her shoulders tense.
In her hands, Shella held a letter, its seal ripped away in haste. And when their gazes met, Athalie understood what her mother’s silence meant; tonight, she would add another name to her prayers, another beloved soul she would never see again. For her last living brother, Basile, with whom she had once shared so many carefree days of childhood play, had also gone to join the gods—murdered by his captors.
She now knew the truth she had long sought to ignore, too consumed by her naive hopes: the Whent family now rested on the shoulders of the only two survivors, a mother and a daughter once estranged, but now drawn together by circumstances. And so, she reached out to her mother, and after long minutes of silence, they wept together.
*****
One morning, Harra woke her by yanking the curtains harshly from her bed. Athalie rubbed her eyes as her nurse planted her hands on her hips, brows furrowed, and a stern expression on her face. The young girl barely had time to see Harra’s hands lift the blanket from over her before the nurse pointed to the white sheet of her mattress.
"When was the last time you bled?" she asked sharply. "The laundresses assure me it has been at least two months since they found any blood on your sheets."
Athalie rose from her bed, furrowing her brows, before slipping a robe over her nightgown.
"I don’t know," she replied, her tone defensive. "I haven’t given it much thought; my moonblood is often late."
A sigh of exasperation escaped Harra, and seeing the lost expression on the young girl’s face, she relented, her tone softening.
"I won't ask you who," she said. "You have a right to your secrets." She then paused, her gaze sharpening. "But I think it's best you see Maester Tothmure—just to be sure. This could be serious."
She then helped Athalie dress properly before taking her by the hand and leading her toward the maester’s office. Harra even held her hand as she was examined closely, enduring without a flinch the iron grip of the young girl, whose eyes squeezed shut in humiliation.
And it was she who, at the maester’s solemn nod, held her steady, preventing her from fainting by gripping her tightly in her arms.
And it was also Harra who helped the trembling young girl make her way in small steps to the threshold of her mother's quarters, accompanied by the maester.
For that, Athalie knew she would always be thankful to her.
*****
Still, her head bowed, Athalie flinched under the cold, steely gaze of her mother. Maester Tothmure continued to speak, explaining to his lady what he had observed during his examination—there was no doubt, she was indeed pregnant, and had been for at least two and a half months.
Athalie did not know whether Walter had spoken to his wife about the relationship between their daughter and the second son of Stark; all she knew was that she had carefully avoided the subject with Shella. And here she was, forced to confess everything to her mother, in the worst possible way—carrying within her the consequences of her mistake.
Shella dismissed Harra, as well as the maester after he had finished speaking; a long silence followed the sound of the door closing.
"I think I need not remind you of what awaits you," her mother said. "Just as you need no further reproach; your punishment is already great enough. Now, I will not tell anyone; you could lose it at any moment. Otherwise, you will remain at Harrenhal until the term; we will see what to announce at the end of the war. Perhaps the child could be passed off as one of mine."
"But if Ned returns from the war and we finally wed, this child will be mine," Athalie replied with a wistful expression. "If it’s a boy, we could give him a northern name," she timidly continued, her voice laced with hope. "But if it’s a girl, I would wish for her to bear a name from the Riverlands; I have always cherished the name Maerie—and the story behind it."
Shella's face softened—and she offered a small smile to her daughter. In a rare show of affection, she placed her hand over Athalie's and squeezed for a moment, before withdrawing it and rising to her feet.
"From now on, take care of your health, my daughter," her mother said firmly. "Pregnancy is a woman’s battlefield; you’ll need to be strong enough to face it."
*****
The castle of Harrenhal seemed, as always, perfectly silent once the moon had taken the sun’s place; yet within its walls a tumult stirred.
Startled awake, Athalie had no time to understand what was happening before she was dressed in a modest woolen gown; the servants hurried to prepare a bundle for her while Shella Whent, still in her dressing gown, struggled to explain the situation to her daughter.
"Scouts have just delivered a message," she said with a hurried voice while she helped the maids pack their dresses. "Hoster Tully’s forces, led by Jonos Bracken and his men, are marching toward us." But what Shella really wanted to say was that since all the soldiers of Harrenhal had marched off to war, no one remained to defend them.
War was a strange curse upon the world, an endless cycle where men, in the name of their lords, seemed doomed to slaughter one another. And the women, left behind, were its silent victims.
The specter of Athalie Manderly lingered in the air, an unspoken understanding between mother and daughter—if they wished to escape the same fate, they had to flee. Far, far away. Athalie pleaded to be able to say goodbye to Harra, or even to take Cobalt and Briony with them, but her mother would not hear of it—there was no time, the soldiers could arrive at any moment.
And so, they found themselves on the road, leaving their home behind and all they owned. Never had Athalie felt such a chilling terror, seeping into her veins; the silence of the night stood in stark contrast to the heavy thud of her heart.
She focused on her footsteps through the trees, each one measured and cautious, wary of every rustle of a leaf and every crack of each twig beneath her feet. Silent, their hoods pulled low over their eyes, Athalie and Shella slipped through the woods near the Isle of Faces and were long gone when the Riverlands’ soldiers reached the castle.
They ran, their feet seeming to have wings, carrying them farther and faster with each passing moment. Strands of moonlight streaked across the sky, silver threads shattering the darkness of the night. Athalie could not stop; it was now too late to be aware of the burning in her lungs or the sting in her eyes. For she had to fly, carried by the cold night wind; for she wanted to fly, terrified of touching the earth again, of returning to reality.
Around them stretched a scenery both eerie and haunting, dark trees rising like sentinels against the night. A heavy, mystical air lingered, as if the world itself were holding its breath. In that silence, anything seemed possible. The sharp, bitter scent of smoke filled the air, making it hard to breathe. Athalie knew, with a sickening certainty, that it was her home that was burning.
She refused to let her mind turn to Harrenhal, the castle of her youth. As dreary as it had been, it was still her anchor; the thought of losing it was an ache too raw to endure.
Now, her mother was all she had left. Athalie, barely seventeen, felt as though she had already lived a lifetime, her heart weighed down with the burdens of a far older soul.
"My mother was a Mooton," Shella murmured as they slowed their pace near a deserted road, the stillness pressing in around them like a thick fog. "And the lord of Maidenpool, though frail of health, is my cousin. Surely, they will agree to shelter us there. I've heard whispers that they’re considering declaring for the king.” And as to convince herself, she added, “The rebels won’t dare to attack, fearing he might permanently side with the royalists."
So they made their way east, carefully avoiding the beaten paths and stopping at inns only when absolutely necessary. For the first time, thirst, cold, and hunger became familiar companions, a ceaseless torment that weakened them. With each passing day, Athalie’s belly grew rounder, making each step more difficult than the last.
And when they finally reached the blue gate of Maidenpool after weeks of grief and hardships, relief washed over them and their strength slipped away. They were safe, at last—if only for a moment.
They knocked, and when no answer came they knocked again, until a weary guard begrudgingly opened the door. The two ladies, soaked by the rain and weary from their journey, stepped inside and requested the guest right of Lord Marq; tonight, they would sleep in a bed.
*****
Athalie awoke to the first rays of sunlight and the song of birds, her body sinking into the softness of a plush mattress. The war had never felt so distant, and for once, she didn’t feel the morning sickness that had plagued her every morning for weeks.
After a long night’s rest, she was guided to the dining hall to join the Mooton family; it was a steward who came to summon her to breakfast. Athalie found her mother already seated beside Lady Amarei Mooton, who was engaged in a lively conversation with her two young sons.
The young girl sat with a smile while Walys and Manfryd, two lively and boisterous boys, filled the room with their voices and their energy. Her stomach gave a small rumble as she caught sight of the loaves of bread, pastries and tea scattered across the tablecloth, tempting and warm.
“How fares my cousin, Lord Marq?” Shella inquired. “We have yet to see him since our arrival.”
“He still lies abed,” Lady Mooton replied curtly. “He has no time to concern himself with visitors, nor to entangle himself in this rebellion. The gods alone know how many letters, from both the North and King’s Landing, arrive by raven each day—especially after Lord Rickard and his eldest’s execution.”
“But who rules the North now?” Shella asked, as Athalie filled her bowl with winter wheat and figs. The name of Eddard Stark lingered in the air, a whisper one might try to ignore but never could. The girl’s hand drifted to her rounded belly, grown heavier with the weight of six moons’ child, a burden that seemed to grow with each passing day.
"As you may already know, King Aerys has burnt to death Rickard and Brandon Stark," Amarei Mooton, casting a furtive glance toward Athalie’s belly, recounted as she toasted her rusk. "Then he demanded the heads of Jon Arryn's wards—Robert Baratheon, Lyanna Stark's betrothed, and Eddard Stark, the second son of Lord Rickard. It is he who is now Lord Paramount of the North and is leading the war—after wedding his elder brother’s betrothed to secure Lord Tully’s men."
Athalie, unable to steady her thoughts, fought to keep her fork from trembling while Walys, the eldest, incessantly sought her attention. She sliced the meat for him, then refilled the goblet of Manfryd—her expression distant and her thoughts far away.
She waited for the click of her chamber door, many hours later, to allow herself to feel the clash of emotions battling through her. For a moment, it felt as though her heart might shatter; then her cheeks flushed with anger and some tears began to fall.
Athalie heard hurried footsteps in the hallway, followed by a soft, almost timid knock on her door. Her mother’s voice called out to her, but the girl lacked the courage to face her—to let her see the mess her daughter had become.
"Don't leave me outside; please, my dear, let me see you," Shella pleaded from the other side of the door. "I know I haven't been an easy mother—Gods, I never knew how to form real connections with my own children. But I hope you know that I love you; I have always loved you, even if I didn’t know how to show it. So let me in, Athalie, and let me share your sorrow."
The door creaked open; Shella stepped into her daughter’s room. For the first time, Athalie truly noticed the bluish circles under her mother’s red-rimmed eyes, and the faint beginnings of her once brown rich hair turning grey.
She had lost a husband too, Athalie thought with sorrow; and her sons, and her home. So she threw herself into her mother’s arms—the last remnant of their broken family, the only one who could truly understand what she was suffering.
Against Athalie’s wishes—who wanted nothing more than to spend the day buried in her bed, lost in her sorrow—Shella took her to the gardens of Maidenpool. Everything there was trimmed to precise perfection, every detail a quiet testament to the hands of men shaping the world around them.
Then Athalie found herself accompanying her mother to pray in the sept, and later, reading a book in the castle’s solar.
She was not ignorant—the young woman knew well that Shella was trying to drown her daughter’s dark thoughts, to make her forget, if only for a day, all that she had lost. And for that, Athalie was grateful, more than she could ever say—for it worked.
When she finally took to her bed, sleep did not come. She lay still, eyes fixed on the ceiling, watching the slow march of the hours as the dawn pressed them aside.
Tomorrow would be better, Athalie thought—as she did as a child; she just had to wait.
*****
The weeks of relentless walking and running had worn deeply on her body and, after a careful examination, the maester of Maidenpool decreed that Athalie shall remain in bed for the rest of her pregnancy, lest she endanger the child. Her mother stayed with her through every hour, seated in the chair beside her bed, her hands busy with embroidery or a book, or simply watching the fire in the hearth slowly die away.
And after some time, Athalie’s pain and anger eased; yet it lingered, a deep and unyielding ache that pierced her heart and a constant reminder of all she had lost. The world moved around her, yet her eyes remained fixed mechanically ahead, unseeing and unfeeling. But at last, after months of unanswered questions, she finally knew her love was forever lost; and life drifted on, each day like a single grain of sand trapped forever in its hourglass.
She thought of all the memories that would never be; all she had dreamed of sharing with Ned was now ash in the wind. Never would they stand before the gods to bind their lives, nor would they build a family filled with children of solemn faces and shadowed eyes, where echoes of their love might have lingered.
And then, a painful realization struck her: he had never once reached out since the day he marched off to war; no letter bore his name and no raven carried his words. Athalie had sought distractions, whispering to herself that he was consumed by the clamor of battle. She had waited—and waited still, her heart burdened by the weight of a silence that seemed endless.
Now, she wondered if he had even thought of her during those long months of distance and silence. Perhaps he did; but the truth, cold and unyielding, pressed upon her: even if Ned had wed reluctantly, bound by duty to his brother’s betrothed, the reality remained unchanged. He had forsaken their love, sealing his fate to another—a woman who was none other than Athalie’s own cousin and who, given time, might even bring him happiness. Catelyn was a gentle and gracious lady; far worse fates could have befallen him.
Knowing he lived still, somewhere in the realm, was a torment that gnawed at her very core. To think of his voice carrying that familiar warmth; to picture his smile and the fine lines that deepened at the corners of his eyes... In those moments, when despair threatened to swallow her whole, Athalie would gently place her hand upon her belly; and if she was fortunate enough to feel her child stir, she would remember that she now had a new reason to fight. For within her grew a tiny soul who would become her world—her very reason for being.
"How did you do it?" Athalie's voice trembled as she asked her mother one bright morning, still lying in bed, feeling the faint thud of tiny kicks against her belly. "How did you not fear? This child is not yet born, and yet I am terrified of failing to give them the life they deserve."
A moment of silence lingered after her question as Shella’s hand rested softly upon hers as a quiet comfort. "We move forward despite the fear," she replied, her voice trembling, "for there is no other choice now." And you are not alone, her eyes seemed to whisper in silence, soft yet resolute; I am your mother, and I will always be here for you.
The soft patter of rain against the windows could be heard, a quiet rhythm in the stillness of the room. And for the first time in months, Athalie felt a flicker of hope stir within her.
*****
Her final months of pregnancy passed in silence, and no fresh tidings of the rebellion reached their ears.
Lying in bed with the curtains drawn to keep the daylight from disturbing the babe, time stretched long before Athalie. She busied herself with embroidery, sewing, and knitting; at times, her mother would read aloud from a book of her choosing. In the evenings, Shella would bring an array of amber-scented candles to her daughter's bedside, a quiet comfort in the dim glow. She would gracefully settle into the chair beside Athalie’s bed and, with a conspiratorial smile, ask, “What shall I read to you tonight?”
Athalie knew that Shella had always loved history; she cherished these moments with her mother and, without hesitation, would almost always name a historical book in reply. One night, she asked her to read from the manuscript Old Places of the Trident, written by Archmaester Laurent. With eager delight, Shella began her reading, her voice weaving tales of old.
Soon, Athalie found herself lost in the story detailing the life of the Children of the Forest at High Heart, just a few leagues from Harrenhal—drifting into reverie as the words carried her away. Saddened, she sighed as King Erreg the Kinslayer rode into the sacred grove and, without mercy, slaughtered the Children of the Forest and the First Men who stood in their defense.
The silence that followed the end of the tale was not uncommon; it was the moment when both women, lost in contemplation, drifted into their own thoughts. But this time, Athalie wanted more; she no longer wished to wander the roads of her own mind, for they always led to a dead end. She had too many thoughts, and no one to share them with. Once, that had been the role of her dear Harra; but in her absence, the girl felt the weight of her own loneliness.
And she craved a mother’s love; Athalie felt like the little girl she once was, innocent and unaware of life’s harsh truths. Her future had never seemed so uncertain and bleak; for what would she do after the war ended, unmarried with an illegitimate child? She didn’t know if that was the fate that she had wanted.
"Who will have me now that I am ruined?" Athalie finally dared to ask her mother this night. "I shall never wed, and my child will not bear my name; they will be just another Rivers in the world."
"It is true that it was unwise to lay with him before your betrothal was set in ink,” answered Shella in a steady tone, placing the manuscript on the wooden nightstand. “Lord Tully, though well aware of Eddard Stark’s affections, seized upon this failing and forced him to break his word; for his daughter, Catelyn, must marry well—and Brandon was dead. But believe me, you are not the first young maid to lose her way in this world. Love brings far greater ruin to women, while it is little more of a pastime for men."
"That was a love that could not be," the young girl replied, her voice breaking. "And now, I must learn to live with it."
Shella took her daughter’s hands in her own, stroking them gently, her solemn face shadowed with sorrow and longing.
"I know all too well what you feel; what it is to love and to lose it all,” she said with such a depth of emotion Athalie had never seen in her before—Lady Shella Whent, as the mother of her childhood, had always seemed so distant and closed off.
“Before my father’s death and my marriage to my cousin,” her mother continued, “I had thought my path was set; there was a young man—strong and bold, with hair like pale gold and eyes the color of autumn leaves. He was a Lolliston and, like your Ned, only a second son. He swore he loved me, and I believe I loved him in return. I would lie awake at night dreaming of our wedding, telling myself that if ever I came to inherit Harrenhal, he might take my name and see my line endure. But we women can never be certain of our futures; our plans will always be undone by the will of men.”
Shella rose and made her way to place the book on the small shelf that adorned her daughter's room. Then she turned toward the door; it was late, and rest was in order for both of them.
But as her hand rested on the handle, Athalie saw her mother pause, her fingers lingering. She then turned toward her, and the young girl saw the tears that had begun to streak down her Shella’s cheeks.
"Now, you will raise your child with love, and I shall help you," her mother said, her eyes filled with both grief and tenderness. “You will always have a place at Harrenhal, for this may be the only grandchild I could ever hope to have anymore. And perhaps, in time, they may yet be legitimized and rule our halls as their birthright; the blood of the Whents runs in their veins.”
With one last glance, Shella left, leaving behind her daughter speechless with emotion—finally finding the maternal love she had always sought.
She only wished it had come under better circumstances.
*****
One rainy night, Shella Whent was roused from her slumber by the piercing screams of her daughter. "The babe is coming!" Athalie cried, feeling her body tearing itself apart from within. "It’s too soon, please, do something, it’s too soon!" Draped in nothing but her nightgown, Shella ran out of her chambers and ascended the tower’s winding stairs with hurried steps where Maester Nollard resided, seeking his counsel.
But when he finally reached Athalie's chambers, the situation had worsened; and the hours that followed were nothing but a nightmare. She no longer answered—her eyes distant, clouded with something far worse than exhaustion; and all feared she would no longer have the strength to push.
What they couldn’t know was that the young woman was at last beginning to grasp the bitter peace; and in that moment, forgotten echoes stirred in her mind.
The first memory of Athalie remained forever imprinted in her mind; it was the last image she saw before releasing her final breath. It was like reliving a blessed time, a fleeting moment of peace when, with a simple closing of her eyes, she could see herself once more—a child of three moons, wandering the gardens of her childhood home.
That time was innocence, joy, and perhaps an idealized vision of reality softened by the passage of years and the weight of sorrow. Athalie could still recall the delicate scent of turned earth and hydrangeas, the sound of her laughter filling the halls of the castle, and the soft trickle of water by the ruined sept.
She had completely forgotten the shadow of Harrenhal, its desolate ruins, and the bitter cold of its winters.
None of it mattered anymore.
The hours crawled by, yet her suffering endured; her face, slick with sweat, and her body drenched in blood. Shapes moved at the edge of her vision—maids, no doubt summoned by the maester and her mother. Unfamiliar faces, lined with worry; strangers, when all she longed for was home. Her heart tightened whenever she recalled the soft face of her nurse as she walked beside her with a quiet smile—both vibrant and yet drained of color.
At many points in her life had she sought to reclaim that peace; a memory of happier days, of a family she had cherished nonetheless, and a sky free of clouds. And Athalie thought, childhood always seemed so tender in the places where life later breaks us.
“She’s losing too much blood, my lady, we’re losing her,” she heard faintly as dark spots began to cloud her vision. Athalie felt the warmth of her mother’s hand on hers, the only distant beacon guiding her through the waves. Her heart, shaken with sobs, tightened when she heard the faint, distant cry of a newborn.
And she recalled an old tale from her childhood, one Harra used to whisper by the hearth on cold nights—the story of Maerie, the clever maid who cheated death thrice and outwitted the King of the Trident, who sought to claim her as his own. She recalled the awe she had felt as a child, envisioning the girl’s courage, her sharp mind, and the sly wit that had seen her through trials no maid should ever face.
Athalie watched as Maester Nollard swaddled the babe in a small blanket, his hands careful and practiced. Her mother stepped forward without a word, gathering the child into her arms with a tenderness that made Athalie’s chest tighten.
"It's a girl," Shella murmured, her voice soft yet weighted, as she cradled the wailing babe and rocked her gently. Then, settling beside Athalie in the chair, she turned and tried to place the child in her arms.
"Maerie," Athalie managed to whisper, "Her name is Maerie Rivers."
But she had no strength left to hold her daughter, the child born of her love for Ned; and so, with a weary sigh, she placed the babe back into her mother’s waiting arms.
Nevertheless, her gaze drank in every little detail—the wide, black eyes, the soft dimple in her chin, the birthmark on her neck. Athalie noticed that her daughter bore the long face and the same nose of her father, and an overwhelming sense of regret washed over her; the regret of not being able to protect this child, who would forever be seen as the bastard of a lord wed to another.
A wave of such weakness overtook her, both in body and in mind, that Athalie understood she was nearing the edge.
She could not bring herself to look at her daughter last time; and her eyes slowly closed.
Her body remained heavy on the mattress, her cheeks still wet with tears—until, suddenly, she felt nothing at all. The warmth of her mother’s hand had vanished, the cries of her baby had faded; and Athalie felt herself transported to Harrenhal, to its dark stones and desolate ruins. She saw herself as a girl again, carried by life with joy and lightness, her head filled with dreams and letters of her first love. At last, she thought she saw the faces of her aunt Minisa, her father, and her brothers once more; they were waiting for her at the end of the King's Alley, the path that stretched from the Tower of Ghosts to the crumbling castle.
Athalie did not look back; night had fallen.
*****
The cries of a child echoed through the shadowed chamber from the east wing of Maidenpool’s castle. The heavy, drawn curtains released the faintest hint of the rising sun. A new day was breaking, pushing back the dark remnants of the night. No clouds lingered on the horizon, only a blue sky previously concealed by the relentless rains of the past weeks. The early risers were just beginning to stir, each starting their day with little thought for the room at the end of the hall, where the two residents were rarely seen.
At the window, seated uncomfortably, was an old-looking woman dressed in black. On her lap, a crying child whimpered for her mother’s milk. On the bed, a body shrouded in a single white sheet, a heavy and ever-present figure.
Shella Whent, her throat tight with grief, did her best to comfort her daughter’s baby. Yet she could not stem the flow of her tears, nor still the trembling of her hands. Her gaze remained fixed on this child, the only family she had left, the one she now had to protect above all else. She did not notice the men who came to take the body of her daughter away, too lost in tenderly cradling little Maerie.
She did not see the night fall again, nor could she find a moment's rest. The child writhed in pain, a torment that neither milk nor gentle caresses could soothe. Shella prayed, wept, and did all she could to comfort the little one. Yet, a few hours later, silence settled over the small room, occasionally shattered by a few faint sobs.
Too weak, Maerie had gone as well; and once again, Shella Whent found herself alone.
The weight of her house’s future pressed heavily upon her shoulders and she understood, with a dull ache in her chest, that the end of the road led only to a field of ruins.
*****
Spring in the North of Westeros pierced like the winter of the Riverlands, with the ever-present layer of white snow standing out against the grey stones of Winterfell.
Swathed in furs, the dwellers went about their duties without a word of complaint; here, the cold was the norm, not the exception. The scent of stew wafted from the kitchens as the guards trained in the courtyard, the clash of their swords echoing through the walls. A few ravens wheeled in the sky, delivering messages from vassal lords and the Citadel.
A few days after the birth of her first child, Lady Catelyn Stark received a missive signed with the trembling hand of her aunt, Lady Whent. Maester Luwin handed it to her without asking any questions, his expression as compassionate as it could be. She stood silent for several minutes, her breath caught and her eyes fixed on the familiar yellow seal bearing the image of a bat. Her baby, her dear Robb, was still in her arms; Catelyn kissed his forehead before entrusting him to the maester. Once alone, she broke the seal.
The castle watched with unease as she locked herself alone in her chambers for long hours. That afternoon, tears flowed freely; for she had learned that Shella Whent was now the sole survivor of her maternal family.
She read the account of her cousin’s final hours; her aunt spared no details. So Catelyn learned that Athalie had given birth to a beautiful baby girl named Maerie, with large black eyes and a dimple on her chin, though she lived for only a few hours. And that the father of this child was none other than her own husband, the honorable Eddard Stark.
Though she had been tempted to forget, Catelyn had always known that a deep tenderness existed between them, as intense as only a first love could be. She recalled her own wedding, ten months earlier, and the distant gaze of the man who was to become her husband. She had thought she would marry the charming and flamboyant Brandon Stark but it was the younger brother—cold and reserved—who draped her in the grey cloak, the color of House Stark.
"Family, Duty, Honor," she had repeated in her mind, forcing herself not to feel disappointed.
The departure of her husband for war had been silent and his victorious return to the North was no different. No fanfare, no warmth awaited him. The snow had given way to a relentless rain that hammered against the roofs of Winterfell.
Catelyn stood waiting in the main courtyard, her back straight, their child cradled in her arms. I have done my duty, she seemed to tell him without a word.
Then, with quiet pride, she presented the heir to her lord, curtsying gracefully before the watchful eyes of their court. For the briefest of moments, a smile flickered across Eddard’s stern lips, and in that fleeting instant she felt a spark of hope; perhaps their future could yet be happy.
But he was soon joined by a young woman with dark skin and hair, cradling an infant in her arms. "His name is Jon Snow," he said softly, and Catelyn looked at the silent little boy with grey eyes, so unlike the blue eyes of her Robb nor the large black eyes of Maerie Rivers. Her cousin's name seemed to hang in the air and, with a lump in her throat, she fought to hold back her tears.
If Jon Snow had been Athalie’s child, perhaps she could have found the strength to love him. Family, Duty, Honor. Catelyn thought back to her own nights filled with nightmares where Athalie, her face contorted by pain, begged her for help. To those sleepless nights when she realized that by marrying Eddard, she had hastened her cousin’s downfall. It had been hard for her to forgive herself, to find joy in the bright smiles of Robb, knowing that she had taken away the happiness of Athalie and her daughter.
Yes, she told herself, she could have loved this child, though with guilt intertwined with bitterness. Because, despite everything, Maerie was part of her family, and Catelyn would be there for her where her mother could not be. Family, Duty, Honor.
But this child was not her cousin's. He was, nevertheless, truly the son of his father, with that long face and those grey eyes, erasing any trace of the woman who had given him life. And in that moment, Catelyn felt her world crumble.
Eddard Stark no longer carried just the ghost of Athalie; he had brought into his home the memory of yet another woman he had loved. Catelyn did not know where she could possibly fit in her husband's crowded heart, forever forced to step back in the face of these fleeting, untouchable memories.
So she watched the rain fall, the drops striking the earth like a distant whisper. It also had rained the day Athalie took her last breath, a cruel and clear reminder that her cousin should have been in her place, if only fate had not turned her away.