“We’re moving as quick as we can, Your Grace.” Barristan provided from his left, “We’re only as fast as our slowest rider.” “We’re moving slower than a fucking turtle!” Robert claimed.
“Wine!” One of the blonde shits handed him a wineskin, and he took a generous swig.
At this pace, forget the eight weeks Barristan said.
They’d take half-a-year just to reach Moat Caitlin!
Robert took a long pull from the wineskin and looked at the road ahead.
Same road.
Same flat green hills.
Same interminable sky.
Two weeks they had been at it, and they had not even reached Darry yet.
The reason for it was riding thirty lengths behind him, right beside her blonde ponce of a brother.
He had taken away the wheelhouse.
He had been pleased with himself about that.
He had imagined it would speed things up, or at the very least force Cersei to negotiate.
What it had actually done was produce a Cersei on horseback who rode exactly as slowly as the wheelhouse had traveled.
Fuck it.
He didn’t want to resort to this, but he didn’t want to spend another month on a saddle, listening to the whining of his harpy wife, or to even look at any more blonde ponces every evening.
He knew he should’ve left the Kingslayer behind.
He fucking hated ships, but just this once, he’ll do it if it means getting to the North faster.
“It is possible the roads improve past the Trident, Your Grace.” “The roads aren’t the bloody problem,” Robert said, turning to the Bold.
“Get me a ship.” Barristan paused.
“Your Grace?” “Maidenpool.
We divert to Maidenpool, send a fast rider to King’s Landing for a proper escort ship, and sail up the Bay of Crabs.
Stannis ought to be the one doing this if he wasn’t so bloody useless.” Robert worked it out as he said it.
“We’ll visit Mooton, then we sail up to White Harbor and ride to Winterfell from there.
It cuts weeks off the journey.” “That might delay our journey by another fortnight, Your Grace,” Barristan cautioned.
“Better a fortnight east than another two months north.” Robert replied, not even bothering to hide his distaste of it all.
He didn’t know why Stannis opted to leave for Dragonstone rather than stay in the capital, and the name Mooton brought back other memories.
He still remembered the Battle of the Bells, the sweet crunch that echoed when he slew Rhaegar’s Mooton squire, Myles Mooton.
Barristan’s expression did not change, though Robert saw the calculations going through his mind.
“I will send a rider to King’s Landing, Your Grace.” “Have Pycelle pen a letter to White Harbor at the same time.
Tell Lord Manderly to expect us by ship, and to send word ahead to Ned.” Robert paused.
“And have someone tell Stannis to stop sulking on that dreary island and come back to King’s Landing.
I want him to help Ned settle in when he becomes Hand.” Barristan turned his horse and rode back down the column.
Robert watched him go, then looked back at the road and took another drink.
He hated ships, most of it coming from the bitter memory of seeing his father and mother atop the Windproud, smashing to the rocks and sinking to the depths of Shipbreaker Bay.
He had not been on one voluntarily in years, the last time during the Greyjoy Rebellion.
But White Harbor had a decent port, and the North had a decent fleet under Ned’s brother and the fat merman.
Robert took another swig of his wine.
At the very least, it’ll be good for the children to experience sailing once in a while, and the image of Cersei puking her guts out on the sea made him smile.
… 28th Day of the 3rd Moon, Year 298 AC Catelyn Tully The stitching room in the late morning was warm from the fire and bright from the south-facing windows.
Septa Mordane had the younger girls occupied with a repeat of yesterday’s lesson on border patterns, which Beth Cassel was managing and Jeyne Poole was decorating with whispered commentary that she believed went unheard.
Catelyn did not disabuse her.
At their age, the whispers and gossip were still largely harmless.
Sansa sat beside her, her work steady and even.
Her stitches were small and uniform, something that Catelyn took great pride in.
Only four-and-ten and already exceeded Catelyn’s own youthful skill.
Lady was curled at her feet, still and perfectly composed.
“Mother,” Sansa spoke, without looking up from her work.
“What is Uncle Karlon like?” Before Catelyn could answer, Arya looked up and chimed in.
“Uncle Karlon is amazing!
Maester Luwin told me he was the one to revive the western fleet of the North, and not only that, but he also beat the Greyjoys during the Rebellion!” “Arya,” Catelyn said.
“Your stitches.” Her youngest daughter looked at her stitches and made a face, before huffing and continued to work on it.
Catelyn sighed.
While she didn’t expect Arya to suddenly speak up as such, it did make her realize that out of all her children, Sansa seems to be the least close to her uncles.
Robb had an amenable relationship with both, while Bran and Arya very much looked up to Karlon Stark, and Rickon was still too young to have any relationship with either.
She remembered the feast last night.
While seeing the bastard seated so closely with her children irked her, she did agree that having Jon Snow away from Winterfell was the best case scenario.
Whether that be the Wall, or even Frostkeep.
“I hear Lord Stark’s son, Alaric, is rather gallant.” Jeyne whispered to Beth, who giggled.
Catelyn pursed her lips at them whispering like housewives before shaking her head.
“Your uncle is very different from your father, I would say.” Catelyn answered after a thought.
“It comes from their upbringing, as they were raised differently.
She kept her own needle moving, because there was something to having hands occupied when one said things that required thought.
“Your father spent his youth in the Eyrie, fostered under Lord Jon Arryn alongside King Robert.
Your Uncle Karlon, however, learned under Lord Jeor Mormont in Bear Island, the now Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch.
Lord Jorah — the man you saw riding in with your uncle yesterday — is Lord Jeor’s son.
He and your uncle grew up together on those shores.
They fought together in the Greyjoy Rebellion.
Some bonds are made in childhood and prove stronger than anything that comes after.” “I heard that Lord Jorah’s wife likes to make feasts and balls,” Sansa said, “Lynesse Hightower, before she married.
I have heard the feasts on Bear Island are rather beautiful now.” “I have heard the same,” Catelyn agreed.
“Could I attend one?” Sansa asked, her voice quieting at the end.
“Perhaps for your nameday,” Catelyn said after thinking.
“After the royal visit, when things have settled.” “Can I come?” Arya questioned innocently, not even focusing on her stitches any more as she was busy scratching her direwolf behind the ears.
The wolf was lolling out her tongue, her tail swishing left and right.
Catelyn had initially worried of having such beasts within the walls of Winterfell, but her husband had proven wise in taking them.
Having the children raise them themselves would teach them responsibility, and it was an added security for her daughters.
One might call her paranoid, but the story of Elia Martell rang in her ears.
Was she not a princess of Dorne, a future queen by all rights?
She was guarded by the finest swords the Seven Kingdoms had to offer, and yet her life ended tragically all the same.
It was quite odd to see the personalities of each direwolf taking after the child that raised them.
Where Nymeria was quite the troublemaker like her owner, Lady had perfect poise and was befitting the name Sansa had given her.
“If you manage to properly stitch a wolf’s head, then perhaps.” Catelyn finally said after thinking about it.
Arya looked at the stitches and glared at them, “Fine,” she said, and picked up her needle with the focused determination of someone who had just turned a thing she considered tedious into a thing she considered a problem to be solved.
The doors opened as Alyn, one of the guardsmen, poked his head through.
“Forgive me, my Lady.
Lord Stark wishes to see you in his solar.” “Very well.” Catelyn rose from her seat before turning to everyone, “Continue as you were.
Sansa, Arya, I will be looking into your results later tonight.
Septa Mordane can handle the rest.” A chorus of “Yes, mother.” and “Yes, Lady Stark,” came from them as Catelyn exited the room and walked to her husband’s solar.
She saw Jory standing by the door, who gave her a nod and a smile opening the door for her as Catelyn entered.
Ned was at his desk.
Karlon was in the chair across from it — the same chair he had been in last night when she had passed the solar and heard the two of them still talking.
“Cat, come in please.” Ned greeted.
“There’s a matter we’d like your counsel on.” “What is this about?” She took a seat and looked between them.
They were rather at ease, which meant it wasn’t anything dreary.
There was also the news from the Watch saying that Benjen Stark would arrive any day now from the Wall.
It would be the first time since Robert’s Rebellion that all three brothers united again.
It was days like this, watching Ned interact with her brothers, did she miss her own siblings.
When was the last time she, Lysa, and Edmure spoke to one another beyond letters by raven?
“Your good nephew.” Karlon said, “Alaric is six-and-ten and Dacey and I are considering marriages.
I wanted to speak to the both of you about it.” “Ah,” She said, settling her hands in her lap.
It made her think of her own children’s future marriages.
By the seven above, she hoped each of them would have one filled with love.
Usually, the Lord of a keep always had final say when it comes to their children’s hand in marriages.
Doubly so for a House as old as the Starks.
She appreciated them both consulting her about it.
“What of Alys Karstark?” Ned spoke first.
“Only two years younger than Alaric, and the Karstarks are an old and leal house.” Karlon shook his head, “I’m considering something else for them.
Dacey told me Lyarra has developed a certain interest in Torrhen Karstark.” Catelyn’s eyes widened minutely as Ned raised an eyebrow.
“Truly?” “It is one of the reasons I brought him to Winterfell.
He’s technically my page, but—” Karlon spread his hands, which for him was an expressive gesture.
“I wanted to take stock of the boy before I made any promises.
See how he carries himself away from Frostkeep.
See whether what Lyarra thinks she sees in him is what there is to see.” Ned was quiet for a moment, before a smile appeared on his face.
“He is a fine lad,” he said, at last.
“Rickard Karstark’s second son.
Good blood, good house.
The Karstarks have been loyal bannermen for generations.
A good prospect as well, considering his future in the fleet.” Karlon nodded.
“Another year at Frostkeep and he’ll be ready for a captaincy.
He has the instincts for it.” He looked at his brother steadily.
“The match would bind the Karstarks closer to Frostkeep.
Rickard is an important bannerman for you.
I would not have his son sail under my banner and then send him home without acknowledgement.” “A sensible case,” Catelyn said, because it was.
It would also be a compelling argument for Catelyn when she planned to approach her husband of southern marriages for their children, considering there were already Starks married to the north.
“And for Alaric, what of the Manderlys?” Karlon looked at her with a raised brow.
“White Harbor has not lost its place in the North,” she continued, “but it has lost something of its distinction.
For a thousand years it was the only significant port the North possessed.
Now Frostkeep stands on the western coast, and Greypool grows beneath it, and every year the trade that once flowed exclusively through White Harbor has more paths to take.
Lord Wyman is a shrewd man.
He will have realized this as well.” “He has,” Karlon said, with the quiet certainty of someone who had realized such as well.
White Harbour will never grow obsolete as its power was determined, being one of the major port cities of the Narrow Sea.
Greypool was another matter entirely, and it will be decades before they could properly match the trade potential that was the former.
That didn’t mean they couldn’t find solutions before the problem was formed.
“His granddaughter Wynafryd is of age with Alaric, and her hand is unpromised.” Catelyn watched Karlon’s face.
“A marriage between them would not merely be an alliance between two houses.
It would be a statement to every lord in the North and the South that the eastern and western fleets stand together, that Frostkeep and White Harbor are partners rather than rivals.
Whatever grievance Lord Wyman may quietly carry about the changes your harbor has brought, a granddaughter married to your heir resolves it more thoroughly than any amount of negotiation.” Ned looked at her with a smile, something she returned.
“The match has merit,” Karlon said.
“More than merit.
If Dacey agrees—” “Write to her, then” Ned said.
“Send a raven tonight.
And have Alaric ride to Winterfell.
It would be good to have him here when Lord Manderly arrives.
Let the boy make his own impression.” Karlon nodded, something settling in his expression.
“I’ll need to write to Ser Donnel as well.
Alaric will need a proper escort.” “I’ll write to Wyman in the meantime,” Ned said.
He was already reaching for his parchment.
“I’ll ask him to ride to Winterfell.
Ostensibly to present his respects before the royal visit.
The rest of the conversation can happen here.” … AN: Here we go, chapter 6!
A shorter chapter, but important all the same.
We got the first betrothal of the series, Alaric Stark and Wynafryd Manderly.
I don’t know if I’ve mentioned things before, but I’ll be making my own take on some ages of the characters to better match my part of the story.
Consider it AU if you have to.
I also didn’t expect writing from Catelyn’s POV to be so fun and interesting.
She’s such a complex character, but I love her for it.
Did she make questionable decisions in canon?
Of course, but so did many other people.
I never understood the hate Catelyn got.
I hope to do her a little bit of justice here.