ARC I: THE AGE OF ROBERT'S ASCENSION AND REBELLION
Chapter 3: Pride Redirected
POV: Catelyn Tully (281 AC)
The sapphire eyes reflected in the polished silver mirror before me showed more than the mere lineage of House Tully; they revealed a deep weariness, a shadow of pure exhaustion, and a latent fear that I tried, at all costs, to suffocate beneath the mask of a noble lady. The flames of rebellion had dug their claws into every corner of the Seven Kingdoms, throwing the world I knew into complete and violent turmoil. Blood ran like the rivers surrounding Riverrun, and news of battles arrived in droves, brought by exhausted ravens and knights caked in mud and glory.
The Battle of Gulltown had been the first great glimpse of this conflict, ending in a crucial victory for the rebels under the command of Lord Jon Arryn, opening the gates of the Vale to the war. In the Stormlands, Robert Baratheon had raised his warhammer and marched like a force of nature, defeating the loyalists in three successive battles in a single day, cementing his name as the great general of the rebellion. Hope ran strong in our veins, and the rebels' morale seemed unshakeable, touching the heavens.
But war is a fickle mistress. Lord Randyll Tarly, with the vanguard of the Reach, extinguished our arrogance with an overwhelming victory over Robert in the hills of Summerhall. The proud Lord of Storm's End had to flee with his tail between his legs, wounded and hunted like a wild beast, seeking refuge in the alleys and brothels of the Stoney Sept. Jon Connington, Aerys's new Hand of the King, advanced like a hawk upon its prey, scenting Robert's trail, ready to end the rebellion once and for all.
It was then that the greatest and most terrifying surprise of the entire war descended from the passes of the Neck. The army of the North arrived.
They did not come as ordinary men marching to battle; they came as winter itself personified, wielding a vile and ancestral magic that defied the teachings of the Seven. At the Stoney Sept, what should have been a royal victory transformed into the Battle of the Bells, where the loyalist forces were completely shattered. I heard the accounts of the trembling soldiers who returned from that hell. They swore, with pale faces and eyes wide with horror, that the northmen's weapons were enchanted by glowing runes, cutting through flesh, bone, and the steel armor of the southron men with the same ease that Valyrian steel cuts the finest silk. Their own armor, crafted from materials that seemed far too light for any real protection, absorbed impacts from maces and axes that would be fatally mortal to any ordinary knight, dissipating the force of the blows into sparks of an icy-blue light.
I shook my head slowly, trying to banish those profane thoughts, and turned my attention back to the mirror. I finished undoing my nightly preparations, loosening my long auburn hair which fell in a cascade down my back. Today, during the day, the walls of Riverrun had witnessed a union born of desperation and political necessity. Lord Jon Arryn, a man whose advanced age was reflected in the wrinkles of his face and the silver of his beard, had married my younger sister, Lysa.
It was a hasty wedding, devoid of the pomp and prolonged celebrations that a daughter of Riverrun deserved, a direct consequence of the urgency of war. As I brushed my hair, I offered a silent and fervent prayer to the Seven, begging the Mother that Lysa might find some glimmer of happiness in this marriage. I knew, deep in my heart, how much my sister had wept in silence, how much she did not want to surrender herself to a man who could be her grandfather. But that had been the order of our father, Lord Hoster Tully. And as a noble lady, a daughter of House Tully, duty came before any personal desire. Lysa went to the altar without openly complaining, fulfilling her role on the chessboard of kings.
I lay down in my sumptuous bed, pulling the linen sheets up to my chin, but sleep simply refused to come. The silence of the room was broken only by the constant roar of the Red Fork River beyond the walls, and I found myself thinking obsessively about tomorrow. I knew my father. I knew he was not satisfied merely with the alliance with the Vale through Lysa's marriage. Lord Hoster was deeply interested, almost obsessed, with this new and terrifying power coming from the North. Even with the septons of Riverrun whispering in corners that such runic magic was a heretical abomination in the eyes of the Father Above, my father was a pragmatic man. He understood that this kind of military might was something any great lord of the Seven Kingdoms would kill or die to possess.
When my eyes finally began to grow heavy, on the verge of succumbing to fatigue, my mind drifted to the figure of the young monarch who led those runic warriors. King Arawyn Stark. In another life, if the original plans had not been burned alive by the Mad King in King's Landing, I would have married Brandon Stark. I would be the Lady of Winterfell, and this boy... in some distortion of fate, I would have been his stepmother or his guardian. My last thought, before the darkness of sleep took me, was a purely aesthetic and unsettling realization: even at only six years old, that boy carried a facial symmetry and a loftiness so striking that, when he grew up, he would be infinitely more handsome than Brandon had ever been.
The next day, the sun had barely crossed the horizon when I was summoned to my father's solar. The atmosphere inside the circular room was heavy, permeated with the scent of beeswax, strong wine, and the subtle smoke from the hearths trying to ward off the lingering chill that seemed to follow the northern retinue wherever they went.
Alongside my father, the rest of my family was already assembled. My uncle, Ser Brynden Tully, the Blackfish, stood near the window with his arms crossed over his chest, a look of grim vigilance on his battle-scarred face. To my surprise, even my sister Lysa was present, seated in a high-backed chair beside her new husband, Lord Jon Arryn. I looked at Lysa and immediately noticed her deep foul mood. She kept her eyes fixed on the floor, her posture rigid and her lips pressed into a thin line of discontent.
My mind drifted back to the whispers that ran through the castle shortly after the bedding ceremony the previous night. The young King of the North had attended the start of the feast, but when the lords began to shout and demand that the newlyweds be stripped for the traditional bedding, Arawyn Stark had manifested his contempt publicly. He had said, with a coldness that silenced half the tables, that the bedding ceremony was a meaningless ritual, a savagery disguised as tradition. "What kind of civilized man," the boy had asked his guards, "would want to see his own wife forcibly stripped and groped by dozens of drunken men?" Those words had caused widespread discomfort, but in the silence of my heart, I could not help but agree with him. It was a barbarity. Still, I imagined Lord Arryn had been gentle with Lysa in their intimacy, though my sister's scowling expression suggested the night had done nothing to ease her resentment.
On the other side of the solar, the power of the rebellion was personified. Robert Baratheon stood there, immense and boisterous, exhaling a scent of sweat and wine, laughing at some private joke with Jon Arryn. Beside them, with impeccable posture and his hand resting on the pommel of *Ice*, stood Eddard Stark, wearing his armor of black runic plates that seemed to absorb the daylight. And, seated in a chair that looked too large for his physical body but which he filled perfectly with his overwhelming presence, was King Arawyn.
My father took a step forward, clearing his throat to draw everyone's attention. He spoke with authority and began to lay out his proposal, directing his gaze and his words directly to the new de facto Lord of Winterfell.
"With the conclusion of the marriage between Lord Arryn and Lysa, the foundations of our alliance stand firm," Hoster Tully declared, his voice echoing with the cadence of an experienced merchant. "However, for the full power of the Riverlands to be unleashed in this war, we must seal the bond between our houses definitively. With Eddard Stark marrying my eldest daughter, Catelyn, I will guarantee the absolute support of every sword, every spear, and every castle under my command. Furthermore..." my father paused, arching his brows, casting a political lure, "we will require a treaty of mutual support for the future. Especially when winter comes. The North will need provisions, and Riverrun can guarantee the supplies necessary to sustain our peoples."
I kept my head high, adopting the posture of a submissive daughter, but my internal thoughts were swift and sharp. I knew the geography and the economy of the realms. The Riverlands, despite being blessed with abundant rivers and fertile lands, were constantly devastated by wars due to their central position. Even in times of peace, our surplus agricultural production had its limits. The idea that the Riverlands could produce enough to sustain themselves and still feed the hungry vastness of the North during a harsh winter was a mathematical fallacy. My father was promising something he could not deliver, merely to stretch his hand toward the runic power of the Starks.
What struck me instantly was that the young king did not seem the least bit moved or impressed by the speech. His grey-green eyes remained icy, fixed on my father's face like those of a predator assessing a foolish prey.
My father, noticing the heavy silence that settled over the room, tried to bypass the child's authority. He shifted his gaze from Arawyn and fixed it directly upon Ned Stark, trying to appeal to the grown man.
"So, Lord Stark..." my father said, with a tone of voice that suggested the final decision rested with the warrior. "What do you think of the terms of House Tully?"
Before Eddard could even open his mouth to answer, the young king's voice cut through the air like a blade of ice scraping against steel.
"Lord Stark was my grandfather, Lord Tully," Arawyn said, his childish voice possessing an absurd gravity, a resonance that made the hairs on my arms stand up. He did not rise from his chair, but his posture seemed to diminish all the large men around him. "I am King Stark. You seem to have forgotten that rather relevant geographical and political detail."
The solar plunged into a deathly silence. My father's face changed color instantly, a rush of blood rising up his neck, turning his skin a dangerous shade of crimson. Arawyn continued, without showing the slightest concern for the fury of the Lord of Riverrun.
"But regarding your proposal... I have been analyzing the numbers and the facts since we crossed the Green Fork. And honestly, I fail to see in what aspect this marriage would be genuinely good or advantageous for the North."
My father exploded. He took a violent step forward, slamming his open palm against the oak table, and turned to Eddard Stark with eyes bloodshot with indignation.
"Will you allow this, Ned?!" Hoster Tully roared, his voice trembling with rage. "Will you let a six-year-old child give you orders? To decide your future and the destiny of your own lineage??"
I looked at Ned, expecting to see a glimmer of shame or hesitation on the face of the man I had accepted as my future husband. However, what I found in Eddard Stark's features was an absolute rigidity, an unyielding and cold devotion that sent a chill down my spine. Ned did not even look at my father; he kept his eyes fixed on the opposite wall, his voice coming out low and sharp like the winter wind.
"This child is the King of the North, Lord Tully," Ned replied, each word heavy as a tombstone. "Do not forget that. My sword, my honor, and my life belong to the Crown of Winter. What my King decides shall be law."
Arawyn let out a short laugh, a sound devoid of any childish humor, and leaned forward again, resting his elbows on the arms of the chair.
"You offer us the armies of the Riverlands, Lord Hoster," the boy-king said, his tone of voice overflowing with intellectual disdain. "But what army, exactly, are you putting on the table? House Tully has ruled these lands for a mere three hundred years, a gift from the Targaryen conquerors. You do not possess the respect or the blind loyalty of your own vassals. The Freys hide in the Twins, waiting to see who will bleed more before making a decision. The Darrys and the Rygers whisper loyalty to the Mad King behind your back. It would be infinitely more efficient and profitable for me to march with my men from house to house, subjugating or negotiating directly with each lord of the Riverlands. I guarantee that by doing so, I would gather more men and more resources than through your weak political intervention."
My father opened his mouth to contest, but Arawyn raised a single finger, silencing him.
"And regarding the provisions for winter..." the boy let out a genuine chuckle, though his eyes remained dead. "You truly must take me for a complete fool, Lord Tully. Or, what is more likely, the fool here is you."
In the next second, the atmosphere inside the solar shifted drastically. The temperature plummeted several degrees in an instant, causing our breath to form small clouds of mist in the air. Arawyn Stark's eyes underwent a terrifying mutation: the iris and pupil vanished, becoming completely white, milky, glowing with a supernatural light that seemed to pierce through time, space, and the very walls of Riverrun.
"From what I see through the currents of the earth and the reports of your own granaries," Arawyn's voice resonated with a double, almost divine echo, "the Riverlands possess a mediocre surplus production, small quantities that never, not even in a millennium of perfect harvests, would reach the volume required to mitigate the hunger of the North during a true winter. You are offering empty promises made of non-existent wheat."
The boy's eyes returned to normal, and he fixed his gaze directly upon me. The corner of his mouth curled into a cruel, vulgar smirk.
"So, in the end, when we strip away the political lies and the fractured armies, what you are truly offering me in exchange for the blood and power of the North... is just a red-headed cunt. So, no. We are not interested, Lord Tully."
A collective gasp of pure shock echoed through the room.
Barbaric child! Uncultured monster! Never in all my life had I been subjected to an insult so vile, so crude, and so devastatingly humiliating. My breath caught in my throat, and I felt my cheeks burn with a mixture of unbearable shame and murderous fury. He had reduced my dignity, my lineage, my education as a noble lady, and the very value of my existence to a vulgar, carnal description.
My father lost control completely. His face turned from red to an almost purple hue, and he lunged toward the boy with his fist raised, roaring insults and curses I had never heard him utter before. Ser Brynden stepped forward, his hand on the pommel of his sword, and even Robert Baratheon seemed momentarily shocked by the audacity of the child's words.
However, before any man could touch the King of the North, the vile demon used his malignant powers.
Arawyn did not move, but the runes on his arms glowed with the strength of a blue sun. A violent crack of breaking ice echoed through the air, and out of nowhere, materializing directly above his head through the condensed moisture of the room, appeared the magnificent and terrifying Crown of Winter. The spikes of eternal ice gleamed with a deadly rawness, and the immense blood-gem at the center glowed with a promise of death. The elemental pressure in the room was so dense that my father was forced to take two steps back, suffocated by the freezing air emanating from the boy.
"Your fury matters not to me, Lord Tully," Arawyn said, his voice now devoid of any trace of childhood, sounding like the very wind that howls against the walls of Riverrun. "It matters not if you come to fight by our side out of conviction, out of fear, or if you decide to retreat cowed into your castles. The fate of this war has already been written in ice and blood. Even if House Tully decides to ally with the enemy and march alongside the Targaryens, the dragon's troops will be crushed beneath our boots just the same."
He rose from his chair, his black wolfskin cloak trailing along the floor. He turned toward Jon Arryn, completely ignoring the existence of my father and myself.
"Enjoy the time you have left with your new wife, Lord Arryn," the Stark King said, with a hint of cold irony. "For in a few days, the drums of winter will sound once more, and we shall march on King's Landing to tear off the head of that mad dragon."
With a subtle nod, Arawyn turned his back and walked toward the exit, flanked by the warriors of his Black Guard, whose armor seemed to emanate cold smoke. Eddard Stark followed him without hesitation, without casting a single glance my way, without a single apology for the humiliation his king had just inflicted upon the woman who was meant to be his wife. They departed, leaving behind a trail of frost on the stone floor and a silence heavy with hatred.
I could not remain in that room for a single second longer. Feeling the tears of humiliation and rage threatening to spill from my eyes, I turned and hurried out of the solar, ignoring the shouts of my father, who had already begun a fierce argument with my uncle Brynden and Lord Jon Arryn over the diplomatic disaster that had just unfolded.
I spent the rest of the day locked in my chambers, refusing food and turning away Lysa's attempts to enter and speak with me. Arawyn Stark's insult echoed in my mind like a war drum, fueling a silent, deep, and permanent resentment against the North and everything that came from that desolate, pagan land. They were monsters. Godless, mannerless creatures who used sorcery and vulgar words to subjugate the honor of the oldest houses of the south.
Night had already fallen when I was formally summoned once more to my father's private chambers. When I entered, I found myself alone with him. Lord Hoster seemed to have aged ten years in a single day. He held a goblet of wine with trembling hands, but his eyes, when they rose to look at me, carried a new and bright political determination.
"Sit, Catelyn," he requested, his voice hoarse but firm.
I approached and sat in the chair opposite him, keeping my hands firmly crossed over my lap to hide my own trembling.
"I have spent the last few hours in a closed council with Jon Arryn and Ser Brynden," my father began, taking a long sip of wine. "The insult from that Stark boy will not be forgotten, but we cannot allow fury to cloud our vision of the board. The North possesses a military power that cannot be contained, and the destruction of House Targaryen is a mathematical certainty. Jon Arryn agrees that a rebel victory is inevitable... much to all our chagrin, given the dependence we now have on the armies of that barbaric child."
He leaned forward, fixing his eyes on mine with renewed intensity.
"For that reason, we have redirected our plans, my daughter. I have signed a new agreement with Jon Arryn and with Robert Baratheon himself. If the war ends in favor of the rebels—and it will—Robert will ascend the Iron Throne as the new King of the Seven Kingdoms. And you, Catelyn... you will marry Robert Baratheon. You will not be the lady of a cold, desolate place ruled by monsters like the North. You will be the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. You will sit beside Robert in King's Landing and rule over the entire expanse of Westeros."
Those words should have filled me with immeasurable pride; they should have uplifted my wounded soul. To be the Queen of Westeros was the pinnacle of ambition for any noble lady of any Great House. Yet, the feeling that settled in my chest was a complex mixture of political triumph and a deep, unsettling melancholy.
The days that followed at Riverrun did very little to ease my internal worries. With the rebel retinue still stationed at the castle before the final march, I had ample opportunity to observe Robert Baratheon up close. And the reality was far from the fairy tales the bards sang.
Robert was a formidable warrior, undoubtedly, but he did not seem to be the husband of any sensible woman's dreams. He spent his nights drinking until he collapsed in corners, laughing at obscene jokes with the foot soldiers, and casting lecherous glances at every serving girl who crossed the corridors of Riverrun. He was boisterous, vulgar in his own southron way, and his heart seemed to still be buried in the grave or the captivity of Lyanna Stark. I could see the fate that awaited me: a marriage to a king who would spend his life sharing his bed with wine and other women, leaving me with the political burden of ruling a broken kingdom.
I could only pray, with all the piety of my soul to the Seven, that after the war ended and with the crown secured upon his head, Robert would undergo a transformation and become an exemplary husband, a king worthy of the Iron Throne.
But the darkest and most persistent thought refused to leave my mind. Every time I crossed the courtyard of Riverrun and saw the silent, austere, and imposing silhouette of Eddard Stark adjusting the straps of his black armor, a pang of regret and curiosity would strike me. Ned seemed to be the opposite of Robert in every practical sense. He was a man of quiet honor, controlled, whose eyes carried a promise of fidelity and stability that no gold from King's Landing could buy. What would my life have been like if I had married him? If that demon king had not interfered with his cruel words?
I pushed those thoughts away with a heavy sigh, straightening my posture. I was a pious lady, devoted to the Seven Gods, and I had been taught since my very first day of life that my duty was to follow my father's designs and the interests of my house, like every good lady born under the words Family, Duty, Honor.
I would accept the Iron Throne. I would be Robert Baratheon's Queen. But deep within my soul, buried beneath layers of red silk and royal smiles, a cold and eternal hatred against the King of the North and his entire lineage would take root, waiting for the day when the ice of Winterfell would finally meet the fury of the south.