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Her hair color was returning. It was an odd thought after everything that had changed, been destroyed, ruined, or had simply
ended
. Strange that any single thing, even something so utterly insignificant in the scheme of the realm, could return to how it had been. Slowly but surely, the coloring that she was famed for was making an appearance. As she stared at her own reflection in the looking glass, so thoughtfully and carefully cleaned by her ladies, she could scarcely reconcile the face before her with the one she wore in her heart. It was an eminently disturbing thought. It should not be so hard, at this hour. It was late, late enough that hearth had nearly sputtered out of existence, inexpertly made as it was; the serving girls, as hard as they tried, had never lived through a winter, young as they were. Let alone the number that she had. Had never known what it was like to be truly cold, cut to the bone by icy winds. As if their very flesh had been seized by the jaws of a Direwolf of her house.
Some thought that her house words had been made all but obsolete in the wake of the Second Long Night; for if winter came but rarely, and left quickly, how much use could the warning that had stood by the Starks for nearly ten thousand years still apply? She was not so foolish. The ten-year summer came to mind, a great period of peace and prosperity where men and women ate and drank themselves drunk and fat instead of preparing for the inevitable winter to follow. Danced around in silken liveries instead of training their boys to hunt. Their men to battle. Renly Baratheon came to mind then also, so beloved and foolish that he feasted his men at every inn and keep for a thousand miles, set up great tournaments and hunts. Thought not once of how he was actually to secure the throne he had intended to usurp from his brother.
His reign has been so brief, there was no great appellation for him, as there was for ‘the Old Stag’, ‘the Mad Bastard’, ‘the Young Wolf’, ‘the Wet King’ (
and oh, how fitting it was for an ironborn who drowned…
). Each of the others had many titles besides. Robb had been called the ‘King Who Lost The North’ but once in her presence. The man who had uttered the slur had used his last words to thank her profusely for her mercy when she had merely ordered his tongue cut out.
It was almost laughably fitting how a war so disastrous and polarizing as that of the Five Kings left its root cause so contrarily maligned and praised. ‘The Usurper’, ‘Demon of the Trident’, ‘the Drunk’, ‘the King of Summer’, ‘the Fat King’... on and on until much of the realm had finally settled on ‘the Whoremonger King’. Equally fitting, she supposed. Some blamed his ways for Cersei’s own unfaithfulness. As if the thrice-damned lion slut needed a reason for her degeneracy. ‘The Whoremonger King’ and ‘the Whore Queen’, the two who shared equal blame in plunging the realm into war and famine; it was, perhaps, tragically ironic that they paired together better in death than they ever had in life.
She was drawn from her musing when the logs within the hearth collapsed, as the top level, improperly stacked as it was, crushed the embered layer of wood beneath. She considered fixing the woodpile herself but thought better of it. It scarcely mattered to her whether the hearth was lit or not, except for what feeling of home she could draw from it, the memories of family and friends gathered around the solar, or the great hearths of the feasting halls: a litany of names outside of her true family rushed by her. Old Nan, Septa Mordane, Vayon and Jeyne Poole, Jory and Rodrik Cassel, and so many others that had made Winterfell home. Gone, murdered, betrayed, missing, dead,
gone
.
Her gaze flicked once more toward the mirror, her face lit now only by the low, flickering flame of brands on the wall. This was the most honest view of her, she thought: how fitting it was that she was most at peace with herself in the Hour of the Wolf. Specks of brightness set alight the new —
old
— auburn that was reclaiming her hair. She had often been proud of her hair as a child. Could admit that her vanity towards it had carried into adulthood. Now, she was utterly grateful for the color, perhaps the only shade of red she could bear to lay eyes on. Not the crimson red of the Lannisters, the garnet red of the Targaryens, or the sickly pink of the Boltons. She cast her eyes down to the floor, where, beyond her view, the leathered skins of Roose and Ramsay Bolton would hang forevermore in the dungeons of Winterfell. A warning to all, just as firm as the Stark words. Her mouth quirked up in a smile briefly as a litany of other extinct houses passed by in her mind: they had done grievous damage to her house, to be sure, but they were gone, lost to history, and the Starks remained, however fragile.
Once, there would have been a great surge of pride in the Tully coloring, but now she struggled to manage anything of the sort. If her hair was returning to her, might not her womb soon grow fertile again? Perhaps once, when she had begged the Gods to allow her more children, she would have rejoiced at the possibility. Now, she curses it, even if such brings no small amount of guilt. But her resolve remains strong. Her bannerman would never suggest that she remarry, but they might think it, might even mutter it among themselves, and she despises that thought. No child she bears now would be the fruit of the union she made with her husband in her childhood home, the love and life they had shared. Would not be of the most sacred vow she had ever sworn. There was no point to it, truly. Oh, it would be eminently practical, she knows but she cannot bring her heart or soul to agree.
She turns towards her desk, overflowing as always with documents, books, and letters. Near half of it related to the most recent harvest, nearly complete. Other papers relate to the continued project of expanding glass gardens across the North. Yet more speak of the erstwhile Wildlings, now — mostly — integrated among the Northmen, in the Gift and beyond. Expansion of river canals across the North. A letter from some of the remaining Vale Mountain Clans: stubborn bastards to the last, much of them survived the numerous cataclysms surrounding the War of the Five Kings and beyond. Savages, many Southroners call them, but they are the blood of the First Men and worship the Old Gods, so she had offered them land in the North if they would come and swear fealty to the Queen in the North. Old grudges meant much to them, but the offer of fertile soil and a life where they were not hunted like dogs meant a great deal as well. Many had come, and by the sounds of it, many more were on their way. The Vale had broken out into a half-dozen internal wars once more; brutal campaigns between arrogant lords fought in narrow mountain passes with precious little gained by any but the crows. Fools.
Many other letters brought news of a hundred other wars fought across the South. The situation was rapidly worsening, she thought. Stannis, First of His Name, may have feared that the Six Kingdoms he had claimed would tear themselves apart when his daughter ascended the throne, but this fear had not come to pass. No, Queen Shireen, First of Her Name, had ruled effectively for decades, in spite of choosing the lowborn Devan Seaworth for her King-Consort. Her eldest son, Stannis, Second of His Name, had also reigned with equal success for a handful of years before his murder plunged the realm once more into a brutal civil war. The patchwork of the South that the Targaryens had weaved together by the threat of dragons, that Robert had taken from them, that Stannis and Shireen had been able to hold together by military prowess, tore itself apart. The War of Five Kings and the War for the Dawn had shattered and remade the bonds of Westeros. The unity that regions, peoples, and faiths had formed against their adversaries had been remade briefly into a greater, broader, unity. Briefly. When those ties came loose, they shattered entirely. The North was united under her, but nearly every other “Kingdom” was torn into dozens of warring factions.
As she scanned over the pile, her eyes locked onto fresh news from Riverrun, where House Tully had claimed kinghood for the first time in their history after a series of successful campaigns had expanded their realm from the border with the North to the land of the Vances. She should send them a letter of congratulations, she thought; the Tullys that reigned over Riverrun shared precious little blood with the woman that introduced their colors to the North, but their desire to form a peaceful border spoke enough of their continued bond, perhaps. That said, they had never asked her for assistance; admittedly, assistance that not even she was certain she would provide, so perhaps not.
There were other letters of a more martial nature, regarding the expansion of the navy, the construction of a number of coastal strongholds, the planned conquest of the Sunderland Islands, the continued reintegration of Skagos and Skane, and the like. And of course, the work on Moat Cailin continues, as always. Some of her bannermen have begun to question if the resources poured into it were worthwhile, given the peaceful border, but she dismissed them. The North had allowed their great bulwark to fall into disrepair in the past; their folly had cost them dearly.
The North Remembers
. Soon, it would rival Harrenhall in strength, she thought. It was queer to think of Harrenhall, which her Septa had one called a “monstrous testament to the pride of sinful men.” It was stranger still to think of her time there when she had been younger, watching as men tried in vain to outdo the arrogance of its namesake. The dragons were forced into extinction once more, man and beast alike, but she would ensure Moat Cailin was protected from all threats. Never again would filthy Ironborn scum sully the ancient fortress, nor use it to hold the North hostage.
Even as some of the lords whispered that the costs of rebuilding it were excessive, all lobbied for their sons to take ownership of it. Not only was it an enormously important keep, but it came with large tracks of fertile — if untamed — land, and control over nearby trade routes. In another world, it would go to a second or third Stark son, but there was no chance of that, she knew. She had put a great amount of effort into tracking down any remaining Starks, before eventually accepting that she was the last.
There had been numerous rumors of lost Stark babes, bastard and trueborn alike: Robb Stark was known to have impregnated his Westerling wife, but the babe died in his mother’s womb alongside her. Jon Snow was said by some to have gotten a bastard on a wildling lover, and others whispered he had fathered a child on the wildling princess he married. The crannogmen swore that Bran Stark had wed Meera Reed, but if any children were born of the union, none could be found. Leads had gone dry over time, and no babe of Stark blood had ever been found of them. Only decades later did the thought occur to her that Brandon Stark was known to have “sown oats” across the North, and surely some bastards still remained to be legitimized. Too little, too late. Whatever sons or daughters he might have fathered were likely dead by then, and the secret of their parentage with them, even if they had children of their own.
In an abstract way, she was appreciative that few had attempted to fake Stark heritage. Whether it was out of respect, fear, or some combination thereof, she could not say. But she was grateful nonetheless. She knew in her heart now that she was the last Stark, and having a glimpse of hope to the contrary, only for it to be dashed, would destroy her once more. She scowled then; her thoughts were rarely joyous, but rarely were they so dark. Her work was never done, but perhaps a break was in order, she thought. Striding toward her desk, she reached for her crown, taking a brief moment to marvel once more at it. For all of its simplicity, it is astonishingly beautiful; modeled after the crowns of Robb and Jon, themselves modeled for the ancient Kings of Winter, she has poured no small amount of time into learning the runes of the First Men, so that she can better appreciate it. Some of the bannermen suggested a more feminine design, surmounted by gemstones in the color of her maiden house, as in old times, rather than the nine spikes of a king, but she rejected them. She is the First of Her Name, not a Queen Consort.
A Southron queen might be crowned ten thousand times in her life, once ceremonial, and thereafter by her ladies, but a Northern queen is crowned but once. With no living husband, and no High Septon, she had done so herself, in front of all of her assembled bannermen. Thereafter, none but she have been allowed to touch the crown. The mockery that the Freys made of Robb’s crown stings too deep, even after all of these years. Her crowning tonight comes with little ceremony, but her direwolf stirs with a yawn, padding over to her side. As she walks over to the door of her chambers, she reaches down to scratch behind Frost’s ears. Her fifth and newest direwolf is but a pup, scarcely larger than a true wolf, still accompanied by the slight pang of the loss of her late fourth companion. The bonding is a strange and harsh cycle, she thinks. With another pang, she hears the voice of her late husband in the back of her mind: “the Old Gods are harsh, but never cruel.” Her trials and the suffering inflicted on her family give her no doubt that the Gods are harsh, but she has struggled mightily to accept that they are not cruel. But she tries. The Old Gods above must know that she tries.
Her first direwolf was lost in tragedy, but the second was slain by her own hand. A companion of decades, she had watched as Winter’s steps became more weary, as her breaths were more labored with each passing day. Winter had served loyally, and been a fierce protector, only to fall victim to the passage of time. Restricted diet and medicine had done little but delay the inevitable, but still Winter stubbornly clung to life, even one of increasing agony. Finally, she called an end to it.
A feast was held, two great Aurochs roasted in leeks placed before Winter, alongside a dozen chickens cooked in honey. It was the only time she had ever seen the wolf take time to savor her food. Direwolves held an intelligence greater even than that of men, Jon had said once, and in that moment, she could not deny it. She knew. Walking alongside her to the Godswood, she had knelt before the heart tree and thanked her for her love and devotion, pressing a final kiss to the great head of her wolf. Winter had responded in kind, licking a great swathe of saliva across her cheek, before lying down in her lap, and rolling over. Rubbing her hand up and down the great, soft, belly of her wolf, she found the weak heartbeat of the wolf and set her hand upon its loving heart. For a moment, she simply stared at the heart tree, begging the Gods to understand, to know that this was not a rejection of their gift, but an act of love. Prepared to cleave a part of her own soul from herself. And drove her dagged into Winter’s heart.
Her wolf’s suffering was at an end in a moment. For a time she simply buried her face in the chest of the wolf, ignoring the blood that was doubtless seeping into her hair and clothes. Rising, she ordered the wolf buried in the crypts, and stalked off. Some thought her cold for it, she knew, but only she knew that she had barely closed the door to her chambers before sobs overtook her. Queens did not get to cry in public, but curled in her bed, she felt like much more like a child than a queen; a child with no parents to come and comfort her. She did not fall asleep so much as collapse from exhaustion that night, after hours of tears wore her to the bone. The Old Gods were harsh, but never cruel. When she woke, it was to a pup licking the tears from her face. A direwolf pup. She had spent practically the entire week in prayer after that, kneeling before the heart tree and thanking the Gods for their kindness.
The cycle hurt each time, but each time also, her faith was rewarded, and another companion came to her side. She knew she should have decades left with this wolf, but she would treasure every moment all the same. As she opened the doors to her chamber, Frost beside her, she sees the sleepy guards outside snap to attention, dropping to the knees in supplication as she strides past them. It is, she knows, out of fear nearly as much as it is from respect and loyalty. Once, she had scorned women who trained with weapons as if they were men. Such a time felt ages ago, and surely was; now, she had trained with a blade more than any man alive. The crown she wore was hardly necessary to identify her in any keep of the North, let alone Winterfell itself, but she wore it proudly. She sat in esteemed company, as an equal. She has fought more battles and waged more war than any Winter King since the Hungry Wolf — known forever after by his appellation, as none in the North would dare speak his given name. The Turncloak had won his life for his conduct in the War for the Dawn, but he had been exiled from the North with instructions that if he ever returned, she would see him burned, have his ashes entombed in a sealed box, and buried in the Wolfwood where no water would reach him. Where his putrid ‘Drowned God’ could never claim his soul. He had not argued.
As she exits the Great Keep, she turns her head to the left, where through the thick and high walls of Winterfell she knows the Sept used to be. Her orders to tear it down had been popular with nearly all of the North, but the Manderlys. They were far too loyal to complain, however, even when she demanded they tear down their own Septs. Perhaps they still worship the Seven in secret, but in public, they have converted. It is enough for her. The South and the Faith have no place in the North, and she was foolish to every think otherwise, to ever encourage anything else. For a moment, she considers the Godswood. She prays there constantly, perhaps to make up for lost time, the long period where she refused to pray there alongside her family. Instead, she turns towards the crypts, entering by a side entrance, putting her in towards the back of the vault. She and the wolf walk side by side, first past Frost’s predecessors. Her last three deceased wolves have been buried in their own tomb, as befits their station as the sigil of House Stark. Ned Stark had broken tradition to have a statue placed for his siblings Brandon, Lyanna, and Benjen (
perhaps somewhat morbid, given the man was still alive at the time
). He broke it again for his children and wife. She had broken it once again to ensure that every one of the Starks were buried with their own statues, including the wolves. Laying a hand on the stone representations of each of her last three wolves in turn, she walks further on, taking in each of the statues in turn.
‘Jeyne Stark: Queen in the North’ greets her first; the last to be buried. Not, in fact, because her body was last to be found, but because of the work it took to freed her of the aspersions cast against her. Documents and interrogations had cleared her of her mother’s treachery. Sybell Spicer may have concocted a treacherous plot with Twin Lannister, but Jeyne had no witting part in it. Had died attempting to flee to safety, to birth Robb the heir in her belly. She feels a small measure of guilt at having denied Jeyne a place in the crypts for so long, but it is fleeting. Better to be cautious than mistakenly bury a traitor of great magnitude alongside her family.
‘Val Stark: Queen in the North’
comes next, containing the body of Jon’s wife. She had scarcely known the woman, but she had been fierce and loyal, dying alongside Jon in the War for the Dawn. She was a true queen, if only for a brief period, taking on her duties so effortlessly that one would scarcely believe she had lived below the wall for mere years of her life.
‘Eddard Stark: Crown Prince of the North’
. Perhaps the most sobering of the tombs, containing the half-developed bones of Robb and Jeyne’s babe. Robb had wanted the babe named Eddard or Sansa, based upon the gender. She was not quite sure how the maester was able to determine the sex of a babe, but he had seemed utterly certain, so the babe was buried as Eddard, even if it never had a chance to live as such.
‘Jon Snow: King in the North; Ghost’
. The last of her additions to the crypts. The bastard that wasn’t; Eddard Stark’s sole lapse in honor that had never occurred. A man she had scarcely formed a relationship with, but for the last year of his life. She held every moment of their new-found closeness at the end near to her heart, never to be forgotten. He had also fallen in the War for the Dawn, bravely leading the charge to destroy the last of the Others. The tomb had been filled in two parts, as Ghost had survived him for several years; she would never forget the day that Ghost glued himself to her side and bonded with her. She sometimes wondered if it were possible that Ghost was unaware of the tension that had once existed between she and Jon, or perhaps if Ghost simply shared Jon’s nature: strong and brave, but sweet below the surface. Ghost had perished protecting her from yet another betrayal, when the Dustins and Ryswells attempted to murder her in the night, he killed dozens in her defense, saving her. He wore the crown he had in life.
‘Rickon Stark: Prince of the North; Shaggydog’
. Driven from his home by the Turncloak and forced into the wildness, guarded only by his wolf and wildling caretaker. She owed a great debt of gratitude to Osha, ensured she was buried in a premier part of the lichyard, in the company of stewards and maesters, for all she did to keep little Rickon safe. It was not enough; she died, followed soon after by Rickon and Shaggydog themselves, murdered by the Boltons. He was, at least, joined by his wolf in the tomb.
‘Bran Stark: Prince of the North; Summer’
. Also driven from his home, to journey beyond the wall. Learned the magic of the Bloodraven, and died in the War for the Dawn alonside so many others. After everything, it seems a cruel jape that he could not even truly be buried alongside his wolf, as Summer had perished north of the Wall, body never recovered. Seems even crueler that neither lived to see the summer that they fought so hard for. Sometimes his is the hardest statue to look at.
‘Arya Stark: Princess of the North; Nymeria’
. A true warrior, in every sense of the word. A princess, nonetheless. A faceless man, also. A kaleidoscope of things, and excellent at all she put her mind to. Except stitching, she thought, desperate to summon some form of levity. She had slain a great host of Freys, avenging her brother; once that would have disgusted her, but now she could feel nothing but pride. Arya had also fallen against the Others, taking hundreds with her. At least she reunited with her wolf Nymeria before the end.
As she gazed forward, she took a fortifying breath. So often, she felt a strong pull towards her family, to join them in death. To have it all be at an end, to end the suffering for herself as she had done for so many of her wolves. But she could not. If she fell, she had decreed that the Karstarks, their distant kin, would ascend the throne. But she would never allow herself to let go to make that so. Perhaps they would serve well, but
there
must
always be a Stark in Winterfell.
The North needed a Stark to guide them. And that was her. Even if that were not true, she had failed all of them, in ways little or small, and she was given time to make up for her mistakes, so that if she ever was forced to pass, they would all look kindly upon her, not remembering her missteps, only her love. She looked forward then, to the statues of the eldest two children.
‘Sansa Stark: Princess of the North; Lady’.
Except it was only Lady. Only the wolf that Ned Stark had killed to satisfy ‘the Whoremonger King’, whose bones he had at least sent back to Winterfell. Sansa had never been found, disappeared in the chaos of the Purple Wedding. She had searched fruitlessly for Sansa, but never discovered any trace of her. Everyday, she prayed that Sansa had found someplace — someone — so lovely that she had chosen not to leave, not to return home. Sometimes she struggled to make herself believe it true, fought to remind herself: the Old Gods are harsh, but never cruel. She hoped Sansa knew she was loved, wherever she had gone.
‘Robb Stark: King in the North; Grey Wind’.
Undefeated in battle, sweet and honorable, for however naive he had been. Her lip curled as she thought on the wretched betrayal, the breaking of guest right, that made her blood boil to this day. Would that she could trade her life for his. It put her soul somewhat at peace that she had been able to reunite him and his wolf entirely; his body and Grey Wind’s head had been buried together at first, before she was able to find his head and the wolf’s body, kept as trophies by two separate Freys. Both died screaming and begging for mercy that she would never, ever, give.
She skipped the next statue, walking instead to the one after it.
‘Eddard Stark: Lord of Winterfell, Warden of the North’
. She remembered once when Ned had confided in her that Lyanna’s statue was not very accurate. She had not understood at the time, for it looked so very like her. It was not until she first stood before the statue of Ned that she understood it. His face was perhaps similar, but the statue could not capture the warmth in his eyes, the way they crinkled upwards with the quirk of his lips; the little smiles he would give, ever so reserved, unlike the open smiles and loud laughs of his brother Brandon. Better than Brandon in every way, even if she had once thought the opposite. A man who happily heaped shame upon himself to protect his sister’s child. Who never failed to step up and perform his duty, no matter the cost. Who had been a faithful husband and loving father. She hopes he died at peace. Hopes that he is at peace in Heaven, knows that she forgives him for everything; that there is indeed nothing to forgive. That he lived out ‘Family, Duty, Honor’ more truly than any Tully that ever lived. Hopes Ned knew how much she loved him. Having no shame left to her heart, she pulled herself up upon the plinth and placed a kiss upon the cold stone of his lips.
Dropping back down to the floor, she pets her direwolf once more, drawing in a shuddering breath. Only now did she return to the statue she had walked past.
‘Catelyn Stark: Queen in the North’
. She wondered if any material could ever better represent her than the cold stone of the North. Her Ned had once told her that she was made to be a Northerner, a fierce she-wolf. It had been early in their marriage, and she had been certain that he was only trying to win her over, make her forgive him for the slight of bringing home a bastard. With more than a century of hind-sight, all of their fights seems so utterly petty now. She wonders if she will live eternally sometimes, forever thinking back on what she had said or done. Failed to say. Failed to do. It doesn’t seem so impossible to her now. Whatever the Red Priest had done to her had kept her alive for far longer than any other could hope to live for. And now, as her hair color returns to her slowly but surely, she wonders if the Old Gods are restoring her to her health, or to mortality? Will she live forever, slowly becoming as she was before she died, or slowly age towards death as others do? Immortality is a strange concept to her. She hates it sometimes, and loves it others. The burden of the North has been placed squarely on her shoulders, and she will not shift it to another. She will protect their home.
Some say that Catelyn Stark died when Lady Stoneheart — Queen Stonheart now — was born. But it cannot be true, for when she dies, their house dies with her. And she will never allow that. She cannot, will not, die, for anything other than the will of the Old Gods. Perhaps one day she will be forced into the afterlife, but until then, she will serve the realm faithfully.
At her feet, Frost naps. It seems a shame to wake her, but that also must be done. The sun is rising. She scarcely moves before the wolf rises with her. With one last look back to her beloved family, Catelyn Stark, First of Her Name, Queen in the North, exits the crypts. She has much to do still. Winter is Coming.