Keep My Heart Slow

So break my step
And relent
You forgave and I won't forget...

With great trepidation, Catelyn Stark entered the godswood, drawing her berry coloured cloak close around her. She had never felt comfortable with stepping upon such sacrilegious ground, sensing the mocking gaze of the old gods upon her back, wondering at her effrontery for daring to disturb their ancient peace. Exhaling sharply, she approached the weirwood tree that sheltered a small pool, its waters still and deep, a tranquil spot where Ned could often be found just as he was now, sat under the heart tree's sprawling branches, polishing his sword Ice with slow and steady strokes, the gesture characteristically careful and measured.

"All these years, and I still feel like an outsider when I come here," Catelyn remarked as she approached Ned, making him glance up, his usually stern face softening at the sight of her.

"You have five northern children," Ned said lightly, even as he silently included Jon amongst the number to make six, his supposed bastard, Jon with his grave face and almost onyx eyes, Stark by nature if not in name. Yet six should have been seven, Ned painfully remembering the child he'd allowed to pass into Robert's possession, the lash of the memory not lessening over time. "You're not an outsider," he then reiterated, turning his face from the past, refusing to accept its existence, "you never were."

"I wonder if the old gods agree," Catelyn sighed, sitting down beside him, before hugging her knees to her chest, the gesture surprisingly girlish.

"It's your gods with all the rules," Ned jested, his eyes crinkling up at the corners. But Catelyn didn't smile back, staring out across the still surface of the dark waters, concealing something almost out of sight in her hand. "What is it?" Ned said suddenly, raising his grey gaze to hers, forcing her to face him. "What's wrong?"

Catelyn bowed her head, half closing her eyes. "I'm so sorry, my love," she said brokenly, holding out her hand, revealing a coiled up piece of parchment, its contents shattering the quiet way of life at Winterfell that they held so dear. "There was a raven from King's Landing," she explained as Ned took the missive, unfurling it with shaking fingers, "Jon Arryn is dead. A... a fever took him."

Ned stared at her in disbelief, the world seeming to retreat from him, beholding his surroundings almost as a stranger.

"I know he was like a father to you," Catelyn said quietly, taking his large hand in hers, her grip surprisingly strong, "but he is at peace now. We should be grateful for that."

Ned looked away, lips trembling, knowing all too well the crevasse Jon's death would create, not just personally, but politically. "How is his son?" he said with great difficulty. "Your sister, Lysa?"

"They both have their health," Catelyn said tiredly, thinking of her highly strung sister and the much wanted boy she had borne for Jon Arryn, a fearful creature who was scared of his own shadow, Catelyn wishing in vain she could spare them from the agony that lay ahead, "gods be good. That is all I pray for." She glanced up at the heart tree, at the timeworn face carved into its trunk, its cavernless gaze almost searing into her soul. "The raven brought more news," she said slowly, "the king rides for Winterfell, with the queen and the children, as well as being accompanied by an assemblage." She exhaled sharply, steeling herself for what she had to say next, the words tasting like bile on her tongue. "He has also inexplicably included his bastard amongst his retinue," she all but spat, startling Ned, making him stiffen, "and no doubts expects us to entertain her as royally as the rest of them" -

- "She's just a girl," Ned cut across her, his face hardening, understanding Catelyn's ire against his will, "don't blame her for the sins of the father."

"She is the sin you speak of," Catelyn flared up, "a sin you should have left well alone" -

- "I had no choice!" Ned snapped, standing up. "She would have starved in the gutter if I hadn't! Robert is like my brother, and she is of his blood, so I had to honour that, Catelyn."

"And now the king has decided to show his appreciation of such honour by flaunting his by-blow in our faces," Catelyn said coldly, rising to her own feet, "not caring if he insults us as long as he succeeds in insulting his wife, or so the rumor-mongers say."

Ned looked away again, half closing his eyes, ruthlessly repressing the leaping of his heart at the thought of seeing Lyanna's daughter, of having the chance to see if some spark of his sister still lived on. He saw nothing of Lyanna in Jon, who favoured the stern side of the Starks. "If the king's coming this far north," Ned then said, raising his head, "there's only one thing he's after."

"You can always say no," Catelyn said bluntly, half wondering if she could do as Lysa had and suffer her husband to be the Hand of the King, whilst half wondering if she had said no to having a cuckoo in her nest, would Jon be here, her happiness no longer blighted by a bastard. But instead she had done her duty as a wife, unwillingly accepting the insult of Ned's dishonour, the shame still raw even now, her very being branded by it.

"Can I?" Ned said simply.