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In many ways, things had worked out better for her children than Catelyn Stark had ever even dared to hope.
That did not always mean she was happy about it.
Margaery Stark, formerly Tyrell, was all one could ever hope for in a good-daughter: beautiful but sturdy, well-mannered, intelligent, and her marriage to Robb brought all the bounties of Highgarden to the North. But Margaery was a schemer, and one of her more elaborate schemes had ended with Catelyn losing her eldest daughter to the warmth and beauty of the Reach, and, more specifically, its future lord, Willas Tyrell.
Willas Tyrell was an exemplary good-child, much like his sister, though Catelyn did not know him nearly so well, having only met him twice: the first being when he came to Winterfell for Margaery’s wedding, the second being when she travelled to Highgarden for his wedding to Sansa. Even if she could count the conversations she had had with Willas Tyrell on her hands with fingers to spare, he appeared to be a kind and gentle man who was wise beyond his years (Catelyn suspected his constant struggle with his bad leg played a role in this) and would treat Sansa the way she deserved and love her the way she had always dreamed of being loved. He was no knight from the songs—he would never joust in a tourney wearing her favor or be able to crown her Queen of Love and Beauty—but his leg also meant he would never be called to war, never have to ride into fields of blood and slaughter in the name of honor, or risk losing the respect of his men, and for that Catelyn was extremely thankful.
Ned even approved of the match, despite Willas’s wholly southron blood—then again, Willas asking for Sansa’s hand provided Ned with a way out of a growing problem: King Robert had been bringing up a possible match between Sansa and his eldest, Joffrey (Catelyn shuddered at the thought of him—something about that boy just wasn’t right), with ever increasing frequency, and the future Lord of Highgarden was one of the few Ned could give his daughter to in favor of the future king (Seven save them all) without it coming across as a slight. After all, Robert could hardly complain about anything that would further strengthen the bond between the North and the South—a centuries old disparity that had only just begun to close with the marriage of Robb and Margaery.
But Highgarden was on the other side of Westeros, meaning even The Other One (the Bastard, she thought in spite of her self, ignoring the softer voices that whispered words like petty and vindictive) was closer to her, freezing on the far side of the Wall, than her sweet Sansa.
While she could not help but redirect some of her pain at losing her eldest daughter into anger at Margaery for her role in it, the more important matter was that Margaery truly loved Robb and he loved her in return (a bit too much and often, in fact, and Catelyn could only pray that at some point they would learn the value of discretion). Still, that one virtue made Catelyn entirely forgiving of any faults her good-daughter had.
Her second son, Bran, was courting Meera Reed—his dreams of the Kingsguard disappeared as soon as his eyes were opened to the wonderful world of girls, and Catelyn was silently grateful for Theon. Honestly, she did not know if her boys thought her blind or ignorant or downright stupid, but she was certain a direwolf in a chicken coop would show greater subtlety than her boys did regarding their “conquests”. But, at the end of the day, it made her job easier, so she could hardly complain.
Meera was the only daughter of Howland Reed, one of Ned’s most trusted and loyal friends and bannermen. She knew that the age difference between her second son and his lady love had raised more than a few eyebrows (Meera was twenty-two while Bran only newly seventeen), but they were happy and Ned was absolutely thrilled, so Catelyn was happy, too.
Rickon, her dear little wildling, showed no signs of settling or calming down in the foreseeable future, but Catelyn knew Ned had been sending ravens back and forth with Stannis Baratheon, and she could only think of one reason why her lord husband would communicate with the unbelievably dour lord of Dragonstone (Catelyn could only hope young Shireen had the spirit of the Warrior and the patience of the Mother, because she would certainly need them). Still, neither Rickon nor Shaggydog had mauled, maimed, or otherwise injured anyone or anything within the past moon-turn, as far as she knew—which, now that she thought about it, was terribly suspicious…
Oh well. She would speak with Osha on the morrow. The wildling woman always seemed to know where her youngest was, which only strengthened Catelyn’s belief that Rickon was somehow part wildling himself.
So, her two eldest were both well and happily married and had provided her with beautiful grandchildren to spoil, Bran appeared to be well on his way to joining his siblings in that venture, and Rickon was behaving himself (everything was relative). All would be well and good, if Catelyn Stark only had four children.
Oh, if only.
But Catelyn Stark had five children: Robb, Bran, Rickon, Sansa, and Arya. How many times had Catelyn said that name? Called and sighed and screamed and begged it? She knew not, it was too many to count. But she knew that she might as well have never said it, for all the good it did. Catelyn had more streaks of grey in her Tully red hair than she cared to acknowledge, and Arya’s name was branded on each and every one of them. Arya, her breeches-wearing, sword-wielding, sharp-tongued daughter who made even Rickon seem angelic. She could only be thankful that her younger daughter remained so small, even as a woman grown, or Catelyn was certain that Arya would insist on jousting in tourneys and fighting in melees like Brienne of Tarth. When the entire court had traveled to Winterfell for Robb and Margaery’s wedding, Arya had spent a great deal of time conversing with the Imp she was always so curious about, and Catelyn had been surprised to realize that her younger daughter stood only a head taller than the dwarf. Arya had been thirteen or so at the time, and had not grown an inch since.
Arya had scared away all potential suitors by the age of fifteen, which, of course, had been exactly what she wanted (Catelyn was amazed at how fast the word had spread after the Butter Knife Incident. Her heart went out to the poor Frey boy. He was undoubtedly a moron, purposefully provoking Arya in the way he had, but still).
The truth was, however, that Catelyn had come to accept, and even find some comfort in the thought that one of her daughters might remain by her side at Winterfell, even if it meant her hair was pure Stark grey before her fiftieth name day.
But then the blacksmith came along.
Well, that was not exactly true. The blacksmith had been in Winterfell nearly ten years before he started causing problems—or maybe it was more accurate to say that it took nearly ten years to see the danger that the blacksmith posed.
Ned had found the boy in King’s Landing when he travelled there in the middle of the Long Summer at Robert’s behest (the only time he had stepped foot in that place since the Rebellion). In an unusual flash of political brilliance (the only one of Robert’s reign, as far as Catelyn was aware), Robert had called all the high lords of Westeros for a meeting at the Red Keep—the first of its kind in over a hundred years—to fortify ties between all the great houses. It was there that Ned and Mace Tyrell had agreed upon Robb and Margaery’s betrothal, and it was there that he found Gendry, when he went to Tobho Mott’s forge on Jon Arryn’s recommendation to have a great sword made for Robb. In the end Ned paid the smith more for his apprentice than he did for the blade, and brought both on the long journey up the King’s Road all the way to Winterfell.
Her first thought when she saw the tall, broad young boy somewhere between the ages of Robb and Theon was by the Gods, Ned, another ward? but when her husband explained that he brought the boy as an apprentice for Mikken—it was true that the smith was not getting any younger, and Winterfell needed the constant presence of a smith nearly as much as it needed the constant presence of a Stark—she breathed a sigh of relief.
Still, Catelyn knew there was more to it than that. If that were truly Ned’s concern, he would have found a boy in Wintertown—a young, strong, Northern lad who would not have cost her husband a penny, not some summer-blooded southron Bull who had never been cold a day in his life and cost more than a castle-forged greatsword. However, Catelyn had not really cared, and she trusted Ned, so she dropped the issue, and soon forgot the matter entirely. Of course the matter was of the utmost importance now, thanks to Arya.
If her younger daughter were any different, Catelyn would be worried that she had been stolen, kidnapped, coerced, seduced, or any of those other awful words that appear in every mother’s nightmares. But Arya was Arya, so she was not worried at all. She knew that, if anything, her daughter had been the one doing the seducing, because when Arya wanted something she went after it like a starving direwolf went after a stag, consequences and everyone else be damned.
Not to say that Catelyn was not angry, because she certainly was; she was absolutely furious. The only time Catelyn could remember being even comparably angry was when Ned returned to her in Riverrun all those years ago, cradling The Other One (bastard) in his arms. Catelyn recalled, all of a sudden, that the young smith’s surname was Waters.
Of course he would be a bastard, Catelyn thought bitterly. All the worst things in my life come down to bastards.
Catelyn was not blind, nor was she an idiot. She knew Arya frequented the forge, but Arya visited the forge regularly long before the bastard blacksmith came along. The youngest lady of Winterfell had loved pestering Mikken with questions since the time she first became capable of forming basic sentences. Besides, Catelyn always trusted Arya’s borderline obsessive aversion to marriage, romance, and everything else she considered “feminine” to protect her virtue.
Well, that and her Braavosi-style rapier. (Not that she approved of her daughter having a blade on her person at all times. At all.)
And, 99.9% of the time, Catelyn was right. She was certain her younger daughter had been propositioned before, and she was equally certain that those who propositioned her had met the pointy end of her beloved “Needle”. Until the blacksmith, that is. Catelyn should have realized that it did not matter how many failed—only one needed to be successful.
Catelyn rubbed her temples, her anger beginning to fade to an exhausted frustration, and she slouched in her armchair before the fire of the solar she and her husband shared. When a maid came and told them of Arya’s abandoned quarters and delivered the letter addressed to them that Arya had left on her bed that morning, they had read it together. Ned had tried to soothe her, telling her that so long as Nymeria was still in the kennels (she was), Arya was certain to return, and soon (which was entirely true and rational, but Catelyn was not in a rational mood). Then Ned had wisely decided to give his wife some space to cool off. More than twenty-five years of marriage had taught him that much.
At least Ned had had the foresight to refuse any betrothals for Arya. The last thing they needed was a snubbed Lord declaring war with the North because his son was pushed aside in favor of a bastard blacksmith.
Thank the Gods for small blessings.
Catelyn found herself slowly beginning to relax, at least slightly, enjoying the silence, the comfort of her armchair, the warmth of the fire…
A scream rang out from somewhere below. The kitchens, perhaps? Catelyn sighed. Maybe if she ignored it, it would go away.
But then there was a knock, and shortly afterwards Ned appeared appeared in the doorway. The look on his face said it all.
“Rickon or Shaggy?”
Her work was never done.