[The Main Chamber of Winterfell, 1st moon, 295AC]
The fire in the great hearth crackled and roared, throwing flickering orange light across the stone walls of the main chamber of Winterfell. Catelyn Stark sat in a high-backed chair of dark ashwood, a heavy woolen shawl wrapped about her shoulders. A battered leather-bound journal rested in her lap, its parchment pages worn soft by the passage of years. She turned them carefully, almost reverently, as if the mere touch might scatter the aged script into dust.
The journal had belonged to Lady Lorra Royce, the proud and pious woman who had once been wife to Lord Beron Stark. A woman of the Vale and of the Seven, in a place where the Old Gods still ruled nearly every stone and tree of the North. Catelyn found herself engrossed, her finger trailing the sloping lines of Lorra's neat, heavy hand.
"In these lands, even a prayer must bow to the wind and the snow," Lorra had written. "Yet I have found comfort in both sets of gods, for there is strength in the weirwoods and mercy in the Seven. In the coldest nights, I light seven candles and sit before the heart tree. I ask each for their blessing and forgive myself for the blasphemy."
Catelyn leaned back, thoughtful. It was an odd thing, but a strangely comforting one. A lady who kept both pantheons of gods within her heart. Perhaps it was foolish, but to Catelyn it felt almost like finding a kindred spirit in a place where she so often felt a stranger.
A soft knock at the chamber door stirred her from her thoughts. Before she could answer, it opened, and a young handmaid entered, curtsying quickly. In her arms squirmed a thick-limbed baby boy, clad in a small grey tunic embroidered with the direwolf of Stark.
"My lady," the girl said, her cheeks pink from the cold. "Rickon woke from his nap and would not settle."
"Bring him here," Catelyn said, setting the journal aside.
The handmaid placed Rickon gently into Catelyn's arms. The boy gurgled, kicking chubby legs, his dark hair curling against his forehead in unruly wisps. His small hands batted at the laces of Catelyn's shawl until she laughed, settling him against her shoulder.
"My little wolf," she murmured, rocking him gently. He smelled of milk and lavender soap, and he clutched at a handful of her hair with surprising strength.
The door opened again, this time with no knock, and in stepped Ned.
Her husband still wore his dark wool cloak, dusted with snow, and the smell of frost and leather clung to him. His grey eyes warmed at the sight of her and the babe.
"I see our son has bested the handmaids again," Ned said, shrugging off his cloak and crossing the room.
"A true Stark," Catelyn teased, smiling. "Even at nine moons old, he would rather battle than sleep."
Ned chuckled and stooped to kiss Rickon's brow, then Catelyn's. He took the chair across from her, his face settling into a rare ease.
"How fares Lady Lorra's journal?" he asked, glancing at the book in her lap.
"Fascinating," Catelyn said. "She spoke of lighting candles to the Seven before the weirwood. She worshiped both gods, openly."
"The North was different, even then," Ned said, thoughtfully. "The Old Gods run deep, but the Royces are stubborn folk. Perhaps she carved out her own place in the heart of Winterfell."
"Perhaps," Catelyn said. She rocked Rickon gently, her thoughts distant. "It makes me wonder if there might be room for the Seven still."
Before Ned could answer, a clatter of small feet and the thudding of wood on stone broke their peace.
Their second son, Bran and Edwyn Stark, both seven years old, burst into the chamber, red-faced and laughing, waving small wooden swords at each other. Bran wore a faded leather jerkin too large for him, the sleeves rolled back untidily, while Edwyn had a makeshift cloak pinned at his shoulder with a copper brooch.
"Yield, knave!" Edwyn cried, lunging forward with a thrust that Bran parried with a squeal of glee.
"Never, you craven!" Bran shouted back.
Catelyn could not help but laugh, her heart swelling with love and a touch of sorrow. They were boys yet, untouched by the heavier burdens that would one day fall on their shoulders.
"Careful with those swords," Ned called in his stern voice, though amusement tugged at the corner of his mouth.
Bran and Edwyn skidded to a halt, grinning sheepishly. Rickon clapped his hands and let out a delighted shriek, as if demanding to join in.
"Come," Catelyn said, shifting Rickon in her arms. "Sit and rest. You'll have time enough for battles after your lessons."
The boys obeyed, collapsing onto the fur-covered bench by the hearth, whispering to one another and glancing at the wooden swords resting at their feet.
[The Next Day]
The next day dawned grey and cold, with heavy clouds rolling low over Winterfell's walls. The snow had thickened overnight, cloaking the roofs and courtyard in white.
The Great Hall was warm and bright with the midday meal underway. Trenchers of hot beef stew and thick black bread were passed along the long tables. The air was full of the sounds of conversation, clattering dishes, and laughter.
Catelyn sat near Ned, with Rickon on her lap and Bran and Edwyn on either side, chattering between bites. Robb, Jon Snow, Dorren Snow, Rickard, and the other wards of Winterfell, Osric Stark of High Hill, Harlon Stark of White Harbor, Roderick Dustin, or Roddy as he likes to be called, along with Ser Harald's two bastard sons Edric and Elric Snow, were farther down, roaring with laughter over some joke she had missed.
It still astounded her that four bastards were residing within the walls and not one person batted an eye, she too at come around to them, although still keeping cordial distance from her husband's own bastard son Jon.
At the head of the table, Lord Alaric Stark presided with easy authority. He was deep in conversation with Alys Karstark, the girl blushing prettily yet holding herself with the composed dignity of a highborn lady. Her brother, Torrhen Karstark, leaned in as well, grinning at some wry comment Alaric made.
It still surprised her just how fast Alaric had moved past the issue of Roose Bolton's bastard and how eerily calm he was that day when he returned with the boy's body in tow.
Even worse was the fact that Lord Bolton had yet to send any missive regarding his now-dead son.
Taking her mind off more grim thoughts, Catelyn turned back to the head of the table.
Catelyn watched them with veiled interest. Alys was a fine match, and she would be of an age to wed in a few short years. House Karstark was among the greatest of the North's noble families. A strong alliance, if it came to pass.
Nearer the center, the two Umber boys, Smalljon and Derrick Umber, were red-faced from drink and laughter, tossing a roll toward Robb, who caught it badly and nearly toppled from his bench to uproarious applause.
The hall seemed to hum with life, warm and safe, as if the snow and cold beyond the stone walls could never touch them.
As Catelyn tore off a piece of bread for Rickon to gnaw, her ears caught Alaric's voice, rising just above the din.
"In the oldest days," he was saying, "the First Men carved runes into stone and wood, calling on the earth itself for strength. They say their greatest kings bore swords that never dulled and shields that could turn aside dragonfire."
Torrhen Karstark scoffed, though not rudely. "Old tales to frighten children."
"Tales, yes," Alaric said, his piercing grey eyes glinting. "But tales often carry the bones of truth. Ask the crannogmen. Ask the children of the forest, if you can find any that is."
Alys Karstark listened intently, her hands folded neatly in her lap.
Catelyn bit her lip, uncertain. Runes and earth-magic, such things seemed fanciful. Yet, she remembered Lady Lorra's journal. The accounts of old Ladies of Winterfell, writing in careful script of dreams and signs that defied the logic of the south.
Perhaps there was more to the old ways than she liked to admit.
Ned leaned close and murmured, "Alaric has spent too much time among the old stones and old songs."
Catelyn smiled, but the thought lingered.
The hall roared with laughter again as Robb launched a bread roll back at Derrick Umber, hitting the larger boy squarely in the forehead. The other boys laughed until tears shone in their eyes.
Catelyn found herself smiling despite the unease lingering in her heart. Winterfell was strong, full of young life and laughter. Yet under it all, she could not shake the feeling that the old stones were stirring, remembering things long buried.
She looked down at Rickon, who had fallen asleep against her shoulder, his tiny hand curled trustingly against her gown.
She prayed to the Seven and, in a moment of secret foolishness, to the Old Gods too, that the laughter would last.
But in her bones, Catelyn Stark knew better.
Winter was always watching.
The hall emptied slowly as the meal drew to an end. The various children drifted away in pairs and small groups, their voices low and contented. The older boys were sent off to their lessons with Maester Luwin, still jostling and laughing. Rickon was carried off to his nap by his nurse, with a final sleepy murmur against Catelyn's neck.
Catelyn lingered with Ned in the hall, standing by the great hearth. The fire burned low now, casting long shadows along the walls. She watched as Alaric Stark bent his head to speak quietly with Edwyn, who had lingered at the table after hearing the stories of magic and runes, the boy's eager face intent on every word. A lord teaching his ward, or perhaps something more, some fragment of the ancient North he seemed so determined to preserve.
"You're troubled," Ned said softly.
Catelyn looked up into his grey eyes. So calm, so steady, like a stone wall against the world's storms. She envied him that.
"I was thinking," she admitted, "of Lady Lorra, and what she wrote. Of the old kings and their rune-carved swords. Of Alaric's talk of magic."
"Stories," Ned said, a little dismissively. But he looked toward Alaric and Edwyn too, and his brow furrowed slightly.
"Stories," Catelyn echoed. "But if there's truth in them, even a little… what then? What if the old powers are not as dead as we believe?"
Ned said nothing for a long moment. The fire crackled between them.
Then, in a voice low enough that none but she could hear, he said, "When I was a boy, Brandon dared me to spend a night alone in the crypts. I was frightened, but I went."
Catelyn touched his hand gently, surprised. He had rarely spoken of his childhood.
"It was cold," Ned said, with a faint smile. "And dark. I heard whispers among the stones. I told myself it was only the wind. But… sometimes, Cat, I wonder."
He squeezed her fingers briefly and released them, as if ashamed of admitting even that much.
Catelyn stood quietly, feeling the old stones of Winterfell beneath her boots, the ancient weight of the keep pressing down from the high ceiling. In her mind's eye, she could see the weirwood in the godswood, its red eyes watching without blinking.
Perhaps it was only the wind. Perhaps not.
Either way, she thought, it would be wise to listen.
As Ned turned to speak with Ser Rodrik about the boys' training, Catelyn looked back once at the long tables, the empty benches, the banners stirring faintly in the draft from the doors.
Winterfell had stood for thousands of years, against storm and snow and war. It would stand for thousands more, gods willing.
But standing was not the same as sleeping.
And sometimes, even stone wakes.
She knew not what secrets lie beneath the ancient stones of Winterfell, or even the North, but Catelyn knew there was something more, something real to those old stories and tales.
And it terrified her as a pious follower to the Seven, and yet, when it came to another side, the side of her being a Lady married to a Stark of Winterfell, no matter if he wasn't the Stark of Winterfell, she couldn't help but be intrigued.