Chapter Text
It was arranged when Catelyn was twelve, almost a year before she flowered. That was young for a betrothal, but not too young, and the first she knew what might be coming was when her father summoned her to his solar one afternoon.
“Have you done anything bad?” Lysa asked her.
“No,” Catelyn said. “Nothing that bad.” She’d skipped a singing lesson to go swimming the week before, and Septa Symone had scolded her afterwards. Even when Catelyn short-blanketed Lysa’s bed every day for a fortnight, her father hadn’t summoned her to his solar. So she couldn’t imagine what she had done for Father to need to speak with her in his solar.
Catelyn made sure that her hair was neatly braided and her dress was clean, and went up to see her father.
“My Cat,” her father said with a smile. “My dear, dear Cat. There will soon be another suitor for you in Riverrun. A very important suitor.”
“Oh,” she said, surprised. There had been several men visiting Riverrun asking for her hand over the past two years or so, but none her father had called her to his solar to discuss. “May I ask who, Father?” She quickly prayed to the Maiden that it would not be a Frey.
“Yes, you may,” he said. “If all goes well, you will be wed, after all, you must know who he is. Rickard Stark has agreed to consider you as a wife for his heir, Brandon. Brandon is three or four years older than you, a man grown already, or close enough.”
Catelyn frowned. “Do you want me to be wed soon, then?” she asked. She did not think she wanted to leave Riverrun. Not now. She wasn’t ready yet.
“If we come to an agreement, you will not be wed until you are a woman grown yourself. When you are sixteen, I think. That was the age your lady mother was when we wed, and a far better age for such things than twelve, dear one.” He smiled at her reassuringly. “I am not willing to part with you so quickly.”
Catelyn could feel herself colouring. A compliment from her father and a mention of her lady mother were both rare things from him. “Do you know what he’s like?” she asked, trying her best to be the proper lady Father always said she could be. Even if she wasn’t ready to leave Riverrun, she was going to be married.
Besides, she had never met anyone from the North before. Already she was imagining a tall man, the size of a bear, with a beard all the way down to his chest. But Brandon Stark was sixteen, so that was silly. His beard probably only just covered his chin. Lord Rickard would be the one who looked like a bear.
“No, but you will soon find out,” her father said. “Lord Rickard will be coming here in two moons, to give you and Brandon a chance to meet.” A trace of sternness crept into his voice. “The Starks are an old and powerful family. Lord Rickard is a formidable man. This is an excellent match. You must be at your best.”
“I will, Father,” she promised.
“I have no doubt,” he said, and smiled at her again. “I have no doubt about you at all, my little Cat.”
When she returned to where Lysa was playing, her sister asked, “What was that about?”
“Father’s arranging a marriage for me,” Catelyn said, feeling rather unsettled, pleased and excited and afraid all at once. “To Lord Stark’s heir Brandon.”
“Stark?” Lysa repeated, wrinkling her nose. “He wants you to marry a northerner? Septa says they don’t even worship the Seven.”
Her father wouldn’t marry her off to anyone who would force her to stop worshiping the Seven. Surely there had to be a sept somewhere in the North. “The old gods,” Catelyn remembered. “Northerners worship the old gods. Like the Blackwoods do.”
“And all their keeps are made of ice!”
“That’s the Wall, silly,” Catelyn said scornfully. “Northerners build with stone and wood like the rest of us.”
“That’s boring,” Lysa said. “So will you be getting married soon, then? Is he handsome?”
“Father says not for a few years. I don’t know if he’s handsome.” She hoped so. If she had to marry him, she hoped he at least looked nice. There were a lot of songs where the lady was married off to an ugly man. And a lot of songs where the lady was married off to a cruel man, but Catelyn was less worried about that. If Brandon Stark were a cruel person, her father would not go through with the arrangement, no matter what the Starks said. “It will be a good match,” she said. “I’m very grateful.”
“You’ll be the Lady of Winterfell.”
“Yes,” Catelyn said aloud. “I suppose I might be.” Lady of one of the oldest, greatest keeps in all of Westeros. Wife to one Warden of the North, and in time, mother to another. It was a very good match. Catelyn wondered why she would have the honour, and not the daughter of a Stark bannerman. She had always assumed that she would be wed to one of Father’s bannermen herself.
“Lady Catelyn Stark.” Lysa giggled. “Do you like it?”
Lady Catelyn Tully Stark. Lady Stark, of Winterfell. Catelyn didn’t know if she liked it. It was a cold-sounding name, but it was the name and title that Father said could be hers. “I’ll have to get used to it,” she said practically, not much wanting to discuss it any more.
Lysa, however, wasn’t done with her interrogation. “Are you going to meet him before you wed?”
“They’re coming here in two moons,” she said. “The Starks. Lord Rickard and Lord Brandon.” The thought made her uneasy; saying it aloud more so. More real. She knew she would be married off one day. She had even known that her father must start seriously considering arrangements soon. So why did the prospect of meeting her potential betrothed suddenly frighten her so?
“Petyr won’t be home by then, will he?” Lysa asked, disappointed.
“It’s probably for the best,” Catelyn said. Petyr might have made her feel better about all this. He was clever – not always sensible, but clever. He would know something to do. “His lady mother is ill, remember?” Ill and expected to die. Lord Baelish had written Catelyn’s father asking if his son could come home for a few months, and if he would be welcome back after his mother passed away.
After that the conversation drifted to Lysa’s new doll, and Catelyn put the whole matter out of her mind. For the moment.
---
The day the Starks were coming to Riverrun arrived more quickly than Catelyn might have liked. The last weeks before their arrival positively flew by as Catelyn tried to prepare herself and the household, on her father’s request.
Lord Hoster had decreed that Catelyn should have new gowns. Much as she liked pretty gowns, the fittings quickly grew embarrassing. “Honestly, my lady, you’ve chosen an inconvenient time to start developing your bosom,” the matronly seamstress sighed. “These gowns won’t fit you in a few months.”
“Perhaps they’ll fit Lysa,” Catelyn said with a frown and a blush. (Her septa said she would grow out of blushing eventually, and the day could not come soon enough for her liking.) Lysa had been seething with jealousy since she saw the first bolt of blue silk. There was to be only one new gown for her.
Catelyn hadn’t told her sister that Father had told her she could have her pick of her lady mother’s jewels to wear. “Don’t get carried away,” he had warned her, a smile in his eyes. “Lord Rickard won’t be impressed if you greet his son with half of Casterly Rock’s gold draped around your neck.”
“I’ll be careful,” Catelyn had promised. Her septa had told her something similar before – that heavy bracelets and necklaces would make her wrists and neck look scrawny, and big jewels distract from her face. “Modest jewels only, Father, I promise.”
Then there were the feasts. Her father had left them almost entirely in her hands. She knew what to do, she had helped arrange feasts for his bannermen before, but this was different. This might be her husband and her goodfather. There was a fluttering in her stomach as she decided on the food she would have served.
When they were finally told of the Starks’ approach, Catelyn put on the new gown that showed a hint of her developing breasts and picked out a blue topaz pendant on a slim silver chain, and went out to meet them.
Her first thought was that Rickard Stark was shorter than she’d expected. Bearded and stern, yes, just not very tall.
Then she saw Brandon, and her first thought about him was that he was very handsome. His hair was dark brown and his face was all severe lines, but he looked at her and smiled and it was like the sun coming out. He looked very dashing in his white-and-grey, too. Not even the pimples near his hairline (not many, really) could spoil his looks. Catelyn cast her eyes to the ground as she felt a flush climb in her cheeks.
“My eldest daughter, Catelyn,” she heard her father say, and on cue she curtsied deeply.
“My lords,” she murmured, feeling sudden butterflies in her stomach and not entirely trusting her voice. “It is my honour to meet you both.” She forced herself to meet Brandon’s eyes. They were grey – the colour of the direwolf emblazoned on his doublet, the colour of winter storm clouds.
He smiled at her, and Catelyn felt her cheeks heat further. But she kept her composure, as she had been taught to do.
“My lady,” Brandon replied, a beat after his father did. Gods, even his voice was handsome.
She stayed dutifully on her father’s arm, determined not to show the slightest hint of impropriety. After all, she wanted Brandon – and Lord Rickard, of course, the decision was his – to think well of her.
To her disappointment, Brandon spent most of his time at the feast that evening talking to her Uncle Brynden. The War of the Ninepenny Kings was all anyone ever wanted to talk to him about, but if Catelyn was being fair, Uncle Brynden did have a lot of good stories. “He’ll talk to you later, Cat,” her uncle whispered to her as he passed her seat. “He’s not much more than a boy.”
Catelyn glanced over at Brandon at that. Her possibly-to-be-betrothed looked like a man grown to her.
“Just a boy,” Uncle Brynden repeated with a smile, and continued on his way.
At the centre of the table, her father and Lord Rickard were talking like old friends. That seemed like a good sign. Lord Rickard even laughed once. Catelyn kept still and smiling. Notice me, she thought at Brandon, as hard as she could. Notice me! To no avail. Brandon said hardly ten words to her together.
When the feast ended, she left on her father’s arm, as she had arrived. “What did you think of him?” Lord Hoster asked her.
Catelyn blushed for what felt like the hundredth time since she heard of Brandon Stark, and her father chuckled. “That’s the way of it, is it?” he asked. “I’ll be sure to tell Rickard on the morrow. He and I were both fortunate enough to wed women we could love, and he no doubt would like that for Brandon, if he can get it.”
“He barely spoke to me, though,” Catelyn said. “What if he doesn’t like me?”
“He will learn to,” he assured her. “You will spend some time together tomorrow, without the distraction of your uncle.”
“Thank you, father,” Catelyn said.
Lord Hoster halted then. “Just remember, Cat, keep a tight rein on your tongue. I know what you think of my bannermen, and you do me proud, but Brandon Stark might not be so interested.” He sighed. “I’ve done my best to raise you, my dear, but I fear I have not given you an upbringing appropriate to a lady of your station. I’ve treated you more as a son than a daughter, given you perhaps too much independence, and now I must needs see you wed.”
He started walking again, not looking at her. “I would see you Lady of Winterfell. That is the sort of marriage a daughter of House Tully deserves. Brandon Stark will learn to love you in time, and it would be best if you could continue to feel goodly towards him too. The match will serve both our families well.”
“It’s not a problem, father,” Catelyn said. “I like Brandon.”
---
When Brandon knocked on the door of her embroidery lesson the next day and asked Septa Symone if Catelyn could possibly be spared to show him around Riverrun’s godswood, Catelyn pretended to be surprised.
“Of course, my lord,” Catelyn said, carefully casting her eyes back to the floor, so she would not look too bold. It didn’t stop her from noticing Lysa’s murderous expression. “It would be my pleasure.”
Walking on Brandon’s arm was different to walking on her father’s arm, or her uncle’s. Brandon was shorter than either, and not so broad. This close, she could tell that he smelled different too.
“Was that your sister?” Brandon asked after a few seconds of awkward silence. “Lysa, isn’t it?”
“Yes, Lysa.”
Brandon shook his head. “She has almost as good a glare as my sister.”
“Your sister, my lord?”
“Lyanna. She’d be of an age with your sister, my lady.” He smiled. “Lyanna and Lysa. I wonder if they’d get along.”
“Perhaps,” Catelyn said. “Lysa doesn’t often say no to more playmates.”
The conversation stalled again. “Do you have any more brothers or sisters, my lord?” Catelyn asked, as they approached the godswood.
“Two brothers,” Brandon said. “Eddard and Benjen. Ned – Eddard – is fostered in the Vale with Jon Arryn. Ben’s still at home.”
“It must be a great honour for your house to have a son fostered at the Vale,” Catelyn ventured.
“Not as great an honour as being wed to you might be,” Brandon replied with a grin.
Catelyn felt butterflies in her stomach again, and slightly weak at the knees. “It’s very kind of you to say that, my lord,” she managed. “The godswood, my lord. I hope it is to your liking.”
“I’m sure it will be.” But for a few long seconds, Brandon did not look at the trees. “It’s very different to Winterfell’s,” he said, when he did turn away from her. “Very different. More like a garden. Come, my lady, will you show me your favourite place to walk here?”
They walked arm in arm for more than an hour, the conversation between them growing easier by the minute. Brandon truly was charming. And handsome. Very handsome. Marrying him would not be unpleasant, she decided. She could see herself as his wife.
When they parted, he presented her with a rose he’d sneakily cut from her favourite bush, petals a pink so pale they were almost white. “As fair as you are, my lady,” Brandon said. “Until tomorrow.”
“Until tomorrow, my lord.”
This time, she raised her eyes to his face. His eyes were still every bit as comely as they had been when she had greeted him the day before – and this time he was looking at her. Meeting them almost took her breath away, though to her great relief, she did not flush this time. She did not want him to see her as a little girl. She was the eldest daughter of House Tully and nearly a maiden flowered.
“What did Brandon want?” Lysa asked, when Catelyn returned. She seemed to have recovered from her jealousy only to move into a giggly mood. “Did he give you that flower?”
“Yes,” Catelyn said. “He just wanted to get to know me a little better, I think.”
“I think he’s handsome,” Lysa announced. “Did he kiss you?”
“No!” This time she blushed – and she had been doing so well. Ugh. “We’re not even officially betrothed yet!” And even then she shouldn’t let him kiss her, except perhaps on the cheek. That would be nice.
“Did you want him to kiss you?” Lysa asked.
Catelyn looked around, just to make sure Septa Symone wasn’t in earshot. “Yes,” she whispered.
Lysa giggled, and Catelyn did too.
That evening, her father once again called her to his solar. He was smiling broadly. “Cat, you must spare no effort with the feast tomorrow. Whatever you feel is appropriate. The best we have. It’s to be a betrothal feast, my girl.”
“Lord Rickard agreed?”
“Lord Rickard agreed. You are to be Lady Stark one day. In a long time yet, gods willing, Rickard is hale and hearty still, but one day.”
“Oh,” Catelyn said. “Thank you, father. I’m honoured.”
“You must tell it to Lord Rickard,” her father said. “You made a favourable impression on him yesterday, but you must be certain to shore it up.”
“If he is to be my goodfather, I can do no less,” said Catelyn. A favourable impression? She had hardly said two words together to the current Lord Stark. He had seemed to enjoy himself at the feast the evening before.
The smile lines at the corners of her father’s eyes deepened. “I tell you, Cat, this is a weight off my mind. I would want nothing less for you, or for your sister. Brandon Stark will make you a fine husband.”
Oh, he would. Catelyn was sure he would.
---
It was somewhat awkward, Catelyn decided, arranging her own betrothal feast. It was the sort of task her lady mother should have done for her. There was nobody else to do it, however, so Catelyn took up the task as she always did. Awkward or not.
She had planned a good meal in any case, but now she had to rearrange the seating. She and Brandon would sit together, with Lord Rickard on her other side and her father at Brandon’s, for all of Riverrun to see. Even if her father hadn’t invited his vassals to witness, there would still be a lot of people there.
Lady Stark. She was to be married to Brandon Stark and tomorrow everyone would know it.
Rickard Stark was not much of a conversationalist, and during the feast itself Catelyn sorely missed Lysa’s company, or Petyr’s, or even her father’s. Brandon was speaking more to Lord Hoster than herself, as he had spoken mostly to her Uncle Brynden the first night.
She could imagine more enjoyable betrothal feasts. It hurt, after he had been so attentive to her in the godswood.
Eventually Lord Rickard turned to her. “I have not had much opportunity to speak to you, Lady Catelyn,” he said.
Catelyn hesitated only a second before replying, “It is a pity, but we have the opportunity now, my lord.”
“Indeed.” Lord Stark surveyed her critically over his goblet of wine. “The feast tonight was your responsibility, your father tells me.”
“Yes, my lord. As was the feast the night you arrived. I hope they have pleased you.”
“They have. I take it that this has been your responsibility for some time.”
“Since my lady mother passed away,” Catelyn said, somewhat nervously. The betrothal feast was an odd place for her potential goodfather to interrogate her on her qualities, but perhaps he wished to see how she reacted to pressure. “I fear I am a poor replacement for her, but I have done my best to be of use to my father and our house. As I hope to be for your house, when Lord Brandon and I are wed. My lord.”
“I am pleased to hear it,” Lord Rickard said. “Your father said as much of you. My own lady wife died some years ago, and Winterfell has been lacking a lady ever since.”
“Brandon has told me of his sister,” Catelyn replied.
The comment drew the tiniest of smiles from Lord Rickard. “Lyanna, yes. My daughter is the apple of her brother’s eye.”
“Which brother?” Brandon? Catelyn did not relish the thought of competing with Lady Lyanna for her brother’s respect. All manner of things would be more difficult if she and Lyanna did not end up liking each other. For a few years, at least, until Lyanna herself married.
“Any and all of them.” And her father’s treasure too, Catelyn saw. Nothing else had made Lord Rickard smile. “She can persuade even Ned to join her in her escapades. I despair of her frequently. She has not a shred of interest in taking up her mother’s responsibilities and keeps little female company. I would introduce you to her if I could. Perhaps after you and Brandon are wed you can set a better example for her than she has had, before she herself is wed.”
“If you think it necessary, my lord,” Catelyn said. In her mind’s eye she could see a girl Lysa’s age, dark hair uncombed and grey dress torn. “If Lady Lyanna is to be my goodsister I should like to know her better. I would like to be on good terms with all of Brandon’s family, if I can.”
Lord Rickard looked back at his food. “You will make a fine wife for my Brandon, I think.”
“Thank you, my lord.”
Any further conversation was interrupted by Lord Hoster rising to his feet. “You may all have guessed what we are celebrating here today,” he shouted to the hall. “And why Lord Stark and his son sit on either side of my daughter tonight. My friends, tonight we celebrate the betrothal of Lord Brandon to my dear Catelyn! A toast to them, and to the ties of friendship between House Tully and House Stark, soon to be ties of marriage!”
A cheer went up in the hall, accompanied by a lot of wine. Catelyn snuck a glance at Brandon, who was also drinking deeply. They had been served their wine un-watered, a first for Catelyn. Brandon, on the other hand, drank as though he’d been served strong wine since the day he was born. He was getting rather red in the face.
When Lord Hoster sat, Lord Rickard rose. “It is our honour to accept this betrothal,” he announced. “House Stark is only to pleased to have the friendship of the noble Tullys. May our alliance be long and fruitful.”
There was more cheering and drinking at that statement. Even Catelyn drained her goblet, and felt dizzy for it. It was a good evening, she decided. This was a good thing.
---
The Starks departed Riverrun a fortnight later. Catelyn’s father insisted they stay long enough to make their long journey worthwhile.
“I’m grateful,” Brandon said to her during one of their walks in the godswood, the day before he was to leave. “It’s a long boring trip. You probably won’t enjoy it, my lady.”
He meant that she wouldn’t enjoy the trip back to Winterfell after she and Brandon were married. After their wedding. It was going to happen. “I have travelled before, my lord, with my father,” she replied. “As far as Seagard.”
Brandon laughed. “It’s three times as far from here to Winterfell as it is to Seagard. We’ll have to go through the Neck. I hope you like fens, my lady, and lizard-lions.”
“I would like to see one,” Catelyn said. She had seen a picture once in one of her father’s books. “And I’m not worried about the fens.” More the cold. She had lived through two winters, though she could only remember the one. The snow had been pretty, but the frost and slush unpleasant.
Brandon looked away, and the conversation petered out. Try as she might, Catelyn couldn’t keep his interest for long.
She had been supposed to squeal at the thought of lizard-lions, she decided, lying awake in her bed that night trying to work out what went wrong. Too late now.
Septa Symone said it was only natural that a man grown like Brandon would find it difficult to talk to a girl not even flowered. “From what I’ve seen, men have enough difficulty speaking to women as it is, my dear,” Septa had said. “It is yours to be patient and kind when he does come to you for advice. You are to be Lord Brandon’s lady wife, not his friend.”
In the morning, Catelyn put on a fine forest green gown and went to say farewell to her betrothed. Eyes down, voice soft. She remembered. The whole household was there, equally well turned out. Even Edmure had been dressed nicely, though Catelyn’s brother was still yawning.
“Have a safe trip back,” Lord Hoster said. “We will see you again in a few years.”
“In a few years,” Lord Rickard agreed. “This has been well done. You have a fine daughter.”
“And you a fine son.”
Brandon stepped forward and took Catelyn’s hand, raising it to his mouth to brush it with a quick kiss. Catelyn could feel herself colouring again in a way that probably clashed horribly with her dress. When he released her, she curtsied in return.
“You did do well,” Lord Hoster said to her as they watched the Starks leave Riverrun. “I hope you like him, little Cat, because Brandon Stark is all yours.”
“I still like him, father,” Catelyn reassured him, and won a smile.
When she went to the sept that afternoon, she said as much again. “I do like Brandon,” she confided to the Maiden. “I do. He’s handsome, and he seems kind enough. Any woman would be honoured to be his wife.” She looked over to the Mother, and missed her own more than she had since Minisa Tully had died. “But I love Father and Lysa and Edmure too. I don’t want to leave them yet.”
Now that Brandon had left it was hard to keep thinking of him. Her family was right there, and Brandon was a long way away.
She stayed on her knees for a time. “Can you help me love Brandon as much as I love my family?” she asked the Maiden at last. “I don’t want to hate him. I don’t want to be scared of leaving.”
“I am grateful to my father for this,” she added, before she left. Just in case the gods thought she wasn’t. “I am.”
---
A month later, Petyr returned. He was maybe a little taller than he had been when he left. He was, however, skinnier than ever. He still looked younger than Lysa did.
Catelyn smiled when she saw him, and Lysa hanging off his arm, where she’d been since she’d run to the gates to greet him. “I’m so glad you’re back, Petyr. How is your mother?”
“Dead,” Petyr said.
“I’m sorry,” Catelyn said, abashed. “Oh, Petyr, I’m sorry.”
“I’m not.”
The words shocked both Catelyn and Lysa. “She’s your mother,” Lysa said. “You have to be sorry.”
“She was sick,” Petyr said. “She’d been sick for years. All she could do was lie in bed and cough. It’s like she was never even really alive. This way, she’s not sick anymore.”
“The Seven will look after her,” Catelyn said. “Remember what the septon always tells us. The Stranger is not unkind. The Stranger does not hurt those he takes.”
Lysa nodded, but Petyr didn’t seem convinced. “I’m fine,” he said. “It’s been a few weeks. And now I’m back. You make everything better, Cat.”
“What about me?” Lysa demanded instantly. “Do I make you feel better too?”
“Of course you do!” He smiled at her, then turned back to Catelyn. “Lysa says I missed some visitors.”
“Lord Rickard Stark and his heir,” Catelyn said. “There were a few feasts.”
“Catelyn’s been mooning over Brandon Stark,” Lysa declared. “She’s been very boring.”
“I have not been mooning.”
“You have too been mooning,” her sister retorted. "I don't think Brandon likes me. What if Brandon doesn't like me? I'm going for a walk with Brandon tomorrow, what gown should I wear? Brandon, Brandon, Brandon." To Petyr, she said, “Brandon’s sixteen and handsome and Cat wanted him to kiss her.”
“Lysa! You weren’t supposed to tell anyone!” She should have known better than to tell her sister anything. She'd probably told Edmure too. Or worse, their septa. Then again, Lysa couldn't have told their septa, because Catelyn hadn't received any extra lectures on the dangers of young men and kissing. That was a relief.
Now Petyr was grinning, though Catelyn thought it didn't quite reach his eyes. “So you did want him to kiss you? What would your father think?”
“They’re betrothed,” Lysa said. “Father probably wouldn’t care.”
“Yes he would,” Catelyn contradicted her. “We’re not married yet. It wouldn’t be proper for Brandon to kiss me."
“When’s the wedding?” Petyr asked, no longer smiling. “Will it be soon?”
Catelyn shook her head. “Father says no. Not until I’m sixteen at least. Lord Stark agreed.”
“That’s all right then,” Petyr said. “You don’t have to worry for a long time. It might not happen at all.”
“I’m not worried,” Catelyn lied.