Chapter Text
The North, like any Kingdom, had its own over-exaggerated images. The Northern Berserker, the Fur-Clad Hunter, the Wild Tree Worshipper. Yarrick, the Shepherd of Last Hearth, was these tall tales personified. If he wasn’t truly sincere, he’d be accused of playing a mummer’s part. Tall, bearded and bald, with a thick layer of fat. A quick temper and dour demeanor. Yarrick took his duties and responsibilities as seriously as any Northern folk legend. Yarrick caught Beorn in the yard, the morning after Lady Sansa’s celebrations.
“I see the Great Shepherd has finally corrected his predecessor’s mistakes.” Was the senior Shepherd’s greeting.
Taking care to ignore the man’s tone, Beorn carefully replied. “The signs were right and Father decided the risk of the Starks going unguided was too great.”
“A wise man, your father.” Yarrick’s praise was genuine, though it wasn’t without a barb. “Though no one can choose their family.”
Beorn had his dagger out for a sharpening and polish. He paused, placing it to the side then leaned back in his seat. The courtyard had a modest crowd, the early risers and household servants going about their early duties. He was waiting for Jon and Robb to break their fast, the two boys had badgered him into agreeing to lessons in the yard. He was decent enough with a blade or club but his training in arms were a mix of familial teachings and survival experience. His distant cousins believed it would do him good to receive the attention of Ser Rodrik.
“Of course. Though I’m unaware how a man from Last Hearth can know the mind of the Great Shepherd.”
“I don’t have to speak with the Gods to know what sits before my eyes. Why you, of all people, were sent to Winterfell I may never understand.”
Beorn took a deep breath, hiding the grinding of his teeth.
Yarrick bent his bald skull in close, “You’re a failure of a son.” He snorted and spit on Beorn’s feet. “A miserable coward who can’t even carry on his father’s legacy.” Laughing loudly, Yarrick turned away. “When you get homesick, boy, let me know before you scamper back to Skagos. I’ll gladly take up your duties.”
Slumping, Beorn quickly put away his dagger and hurriedly left the yard. Focused on seeking solitude to cool his temper, Beorn overlooked the figure of Arya scampering out of the doorway he’d been sitting by, running in search of her father.
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It took five minutes for Ned to get a straight story from Arya, then another five minutes convincing her not to dedicate the rest of her day to harassing this Yarrick fellow. His daughter’s last moments of attention were spent ensuring her father would seek out Beorn and make sure he was alright.
True to his word, Ned postponed a meeting with Maester Luwin to seek out his distant cousin. His first stop was Beorn’s favoured spot in the Godswood. He found Maw instead, who languidly joined his search. Finding the Godswood empty, Ned stopped to think. While he decided that Wintertown was a likely choice, he unexpectedly pictured Beorn sitting on a bench near an old door. The image flashed in his mind, it was distorted slightly in colour. Ned recognised it as the door to the crypts. Shaking away the image, he almost turned towards the stables. Something nudged his thoughts toward the crypts. He looked down to find Maw staring at him. The Direwolf was quiet most of the time, occasionally growling while playing with the pups, but otherwise he was a silent predator.
Ned brushed a hand across his companion's fur and set off towards the main keep. It would do no harm to ensure Beorn had left the castle before making the trek into town.
“Lord Stark.”
It was for naught, Beorn was indeed sitting outside of Winterfell’s crypt. He stood and bowed when Ned approached.
“How are you, Beorn? Not too tired from the celebration, I hope?”
“I’m fine Lord Stark. I spent most of the evening enjoying the food rather than the ale.”
“Good.” Ned smiled, Beorn didn’t sound any worse for wear but there was fatigue in his posture. The sound of a scratch drew his eyes to the door to the crypts. Maw was patiently scratching at the bottom of the heavy ironwood door. “You haven’t been to the crypts yet have you?”
The Shepherd blinked, “No, my lord. Lord Robb pointed them out in passing.” He looked away for a moment. “I didn’t want to presume too much, Lord Stark.”
“You have Stark blood, and as much right as I do to see the resting place of our family.” Ned walked past, opening the door. Maw slipped in immediately and Beorn entered behind him. Ned picked up a lantern from the wall and lit it. Guiding Beorn down the stairs, the long halls cast deep shadows across their steps. Maw stayed just in sight of the lamp light as they travelled down.
It didn’t take long to come upon the most recent additions. When Rickon was born, Ned had commissioned the masons to add a new set of unsealed tombs. There were now places ready for himself, Benjen and all his children; while Catelyn would rest beside him. The largest would one day bear a statue in his likeness.
Next came the towering resting place of his father. Rickard Stark’s face looked out stoically like in Ned’s memory. Beside him was Brandon and Lyanna. Traditionally, their graves would have been simple boxes with nothing more than a name inscribed. None of his household argued when Ned had instead commissioned statues for them, it wasn’t unheard of. Most seem to think it was a way to honour their part in overthrowing the Targaryens. Ned’s true purpose had been to keep their likeness alive outside his memory.
“You resemble your father, my lord.” Beorn commented.
Ned shook his head. “As a child, I had more of the Flint look from my grandmother. I suppose I’ve grown into my own. Arya is the spitting image of my sister.” He tried not to linger on the grief Lyanna’s face kindled.
Pushing past, he led Beorn farther into the stonework. The next set of statues were older but preserved by the cold and careful maintenance. Ned named them as they came.
“This is my grandfather, Edwyle. Beside him are the statues of his father Willam, his uncle Donnor, and his uncle Artos.” Ned pointed to the simple graves set behind the statues. “Berena Stark was supposedly buried here with her brothers and sister. I guess the tomb was left empty.”
“As the eldest daughter, Berena wouldn’t have been allowed to wed a Shepherd. Beron had two healthy sons though, so he was convinced to make an exception.” Beorn added.
They had to descend another level to reach the tombs Ned had in mind for this visit. He paused momentarily to examine the livery carved into the arches above him.
“Are those runes?”
Peering up, Beorn nodded. “If Edwyle and Artos were in charge of preparing the upper level, they no doubt wished to distance themselves from the older traditions.”
There was a definitive chill in the air now, strangely enough, Maw seemed more at home. The wolf jogged forward taking a seat and staring up at the next statue. It was quite worn by age, the traditional iron sword laid across the lap. This was also the first statue to have a stone Direwolf at its side.
“Beron Stark.” Beorn declared.
He stood close to the statue, examining the dour face. If one spent enough time in the crypts, as Ned had, it was possible to see the small touches that personalized the statues. How they were dressed and the sigils hewn into their minimal detailing all held significance.
Beron Stark was mortally wounded while defeating the Ironborn, he was depicted in a mail coat and under his right foot was a dead squid. Beron’s mother was a proud Karstark and upon the memorial’s right hand was a simple disk-ring with an inlaid sun. Not all Lords had that level of detail put into their tombs. It largely depended on the amount of time, attention and coin committed by the living members of the family; all of which was further limited by the skill of the sculptor.
Beorn hummed and took a step back, he was frowning.
“Not what you expected?” Ned asked.
“For some reason I pictured finding a statue that mirrored my father. In my mind he’s always embodied the likeness of the Starks but I know better now.” The young man tugged at his own hair. “My own hair is more black than brown, and my father’s eyes are closer to brown than grey.”
“Lord Umber has blood among the Shepherds. You spoke once of a friend, Harman?”
“Harad. Yes, his grandfather was an Umber cousin.”
“I won’t deny that I very much would like to meet your father, Beorn. To know that I have close kin still in the North is a great relief. Outside of your line, our next closest cousins come through Edwyle’s sister, who wed into a junior Royce line down in the Vale.”
“I thought that Artos’ line continued with two sons?”
“His grandson through his eldest took the Black. His granddaughter, by the younger brother, married a second son of the Glovers. Her descendant, Ethan Glover, was my squire during the rebellion for that reason. He died in the Rebellion.”
Beorn wandered to another statue, obviously trying to distract himself.
“I heard that some words were exchanged between you and an Umber Shepherd.” Ned saw the Beorn bite hard on his lip, the dim lighting unable to completely hide his embarrassed flush. “You’ve done an admiral job here. I’m thankful you arrived. Why would this Yarrick claim you were a failure?”
“Because I am.” Beorn confessed. “The Great Shepherd must always be a Greenseer. It’s the one official qualification. When I was younger, everyone expected me to be a prodigy like my father. I was more of a disappointment, I just didn’t have the gift.”
Ned looked confused.
“I have very weak visions, the occasional dream and as I child I couldn’t even skinchange.” Beorn explained.
Maw slipped beside Beorn and nestled into his shoulder.
“I found the lessons difficult. When I got too frustrated, I would run off on my own. I’d spend days camping out on Skagos until my guilt brought me back. My home became a place to escape rather than live. When my sister was born, I saw a way out.”
“You have a sister?”
Beorn grimaced while nodding. “Mari. She’s the prodigy, everything I couldn’t live up to. She was flying through birds by the time she was seven, and speaking with the Weirwoods at twelve.” He chuckled. “She drank up the lessons like a bottomless well. With a proper heir for my father, I decided that it was time to stop deluding myself. I wasn’t going to be a Shepherd.”
“Then how did you come to be here? Something must have changed.”
Reaching into his cloak, Beorn ran his hand along his necklace of teeth.
“I couldn’t work up the courage to face my father or my teachers. I left with another Shepherd heading North of the Wall. It was short notice and I wasn’t prepared. We’d landed near Hardhome when I realised I’d likely wouldn’t survive on my own. I pretended to be a full Shepherd and tricked a small tribe into taking me in. We were traveling through the Haunted Forest when a war party from further up the river ambushed us.”
“You fought them off?” Ned guessed.
Beorn ground his jaw. “No. The tribe was slaughtered, but the enemy recognized my garb and decided that it would be bad luck to kill me. Didn’t stop them from leaving me stranded.”
“Alone, beyond the Wall with no food? How did you survive?”
“I wasn’t planning to. See, the tribe had asked me to seek guidance on the best way to reach their old hunting grounds. I advised them to go through the forest. If I had been a real Shepherd, I would’ve consulted the roots, maybe warged into a bird to scout the way. Instead, those people put their faith in a liar. I burned their bodies, found a Godswood and prayed for their souls. I was starving and freezing. I fell asleep against a Hearttree, confident I wouldn’t wake.”
Beorn looked up and his eyes shone with wonder. “Instead, I dreamed for the first time. I stood before a mighty castle of old stone. It was empty, nothing but the whispers of ghosts filled the halls. Behind me I heard the roar of a great beast as it ripped the throat from its prey. I was terrified. My hands were made of gnarled wood and I knocked upon the gate in fear. The castle moved, and I realized it was no keep but a great wolf carved from stone.”
Ned could hear a steady drumbeat but realized it was his own heart.
“I woke up and Green Eyes was laid beside me. Her stomach was just beginning to swell. I felt the touch of the Gods that night and returned to Skagos with all haste. By the grace of the Old Gods, I ran into a party returning east and tagged along. I finished my training and apologised to my father.”
“Yet, Yarrick mocks you.”
“Though I regained my honour when I returned and even some acclaim for finding a pregnant direwolf. The fact remains that my greensight is sparing and weak, the best skinchanging I can manage is to impart a command but I will never share a mind with a beast, never bond.”
Ned could here the longing, the wistfulness in Beorn’s words. He spoke of a privilege, a wonder, he’d never have.
“Mari will find a good match on Skagos. All the major clans will want her. There’s a good chance she’ll be the Great Shepherd one day.”
“A woman can attain the title?” Ned was shocked.
Beorn nodded. “It doesn’t happen often. The last was a younger daughter of the Reeds, Nelette Earth-Heart, some 200 years ago.” Beorn smiled. “If any woman can do it, it’ll be my sister. She’s always exceeded where I’ve failed.”
“If greatness is her future, what about you?”
“Me?” Beorn asked. “I’ll have to find my match outside the Island. Hopefully a woman who won’t mind being married to the lesser child of The Wolftongue.”
Ned passed Beorn his wineskin, the younger man took it gratefully, his mouth parched from the cold and confession.
“If you are the ‘lesser son’, then would your sister have not made a better choice to send to Winterfell?”
“It was seriously considered. Except, there was uncertainty to how a woman would be received by your family. Especially, an unmarried woman. While I was away fetching Green Eyes, it was decided I would make the first overtures.”
The two men began making their way back to the surface.
“I don’t think any less of you, Beorn.”
“There’s no need to be courteous, Lord Stark. I understand what my actions mean. I’m trying to do better now, but sometimes it's hard to not feel like a fool, trying so hard to be something I’m not.”
Those words struck Ned’s heart, he paused. “When I received the news about my father’s death it felt like my soul had been struck. In truth, it was Brandon’s death that nearly swallowed me whole. Not just because he was my brother, but because it meant I was Lord of Winterfell. To suddenly have that responsibility thrust down, to have no choice but to step into a role I wasn’t meant to, nor prepared to take, was maddening. Even after the rebellion I felt like I was wearing a mask. Those early days were hard. I was unsure, alone and every decision I made only seemed to create more problems.” Ned smiled at Beorn. “I felt like a fool, trying so hard to be something I wasn’t.”
Ned led them out of the crypts. Their confessions to be kept by the statues of their forefathers. Beorn stood straight and bade Lord Stark goodbye, intent on joining Jon and Robb in the yard.
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Winterfell was full of people, bustling from room to room. There was conversation in every hall, footsteps in every stair and the chambers were full to bursting. Catelyn had a full smile on her face. She’d started the day refreshed from a night of pleasantries and perhaps a touch too much wine. Her maids were on time and doing an admirable job. Cat took the time to order a platter of apples and bread to be brought up to her rooms. She was hosting multiple Ladies of the North for the first time since she arrived after the Rebellion.
Looking back, the true shock of the North had not been the weather, it had been the politics. Oh, there were similarities. Kingdoms, from the Wall to Dorne, ran the same way. Lords, taxes, smallfolk, food, these were things Catelyn had learned about by her father’s side at Riverrun. She’d been preparing to step into her role as a Lady for years. Her expectations had been realistic by all measures. Her days would be spent entertaining and negotiating with the ladies and children staying in the keep while the Lords handled business. She would have managed the funds of their household and ensured they were adequately funded, and in the absence of her husband she would have taken charge to ensure matters remained stable. Finally, she would have had a small group of senior household servants that reported to her for instruction.
When she had children, they would be taught by a Maester until they reached an age to separate them. From then on, her sons would be taken in hand by their father while a Septa would handle the supervision of her daughters alongside Catelyn herself. Her sons would be knights and her daughters, Ladies. Catelyn was prepared for her new life. Then she arrived at Winterfell.
By the Grace of the Seven, Catelyn was a young woman in a foreign land with a stranger for a husband and a newborn babe. All of that added to the unexpected challenges that being Lady Stark entailed. Winterfell was not ordered like Riverrrun, nor like any Lord Paramount Seat that she knew of.
First of all, there was no court. That had left her confused for a full week. She’d been in a rush to prepare Winterfell for what was sure to be a huge party of visitors. After the war, she’d thought the various Lords would be arriving and staying for weeks in order to properly adjust to Ned’s new rule. She hadn’t accounted for the delay that her husband’s journey to Dorne caused. When he finally arrived at Riverrun, only the Stark and Reed men remained south of the Neck.
It took two months before Lord Umber arrived, he was happy to see Ned but he hadn’t brought his wife or children. Catelyn was disappointed but she understood that Lord Umber had lost more men than most at the Trident and he had to put his lands to rights. The Greatjon, as he insisted she call him, was succinct and straightforward. His negotiations with Ned took two days, they hunted for another, then Lord Umber had to leave. Apparently he was making stops at every major Keep in the east, then he predicted he’d be stuck in Last Hearth for another 5 or 6 years or until the next Harvest Feast. Once again, Winterfell laid empty. This process repeated for the next year as Robb grew older. Lords and their guards came on their own as they made visits and Ned oversaw what business they each had. No doubt Ned did his fair share of hard negotiation.
There was tension with the Dustins and Ryswells over the death of their kin who escorted Ned into Dorne. In return for their service, Ned granted them increased hunting rights and made a deal to purchase 50 strong steeds from their stables over the next five years. With the Rylls and Barrowlands mollified, he had to turn his attention to the Mountain Clans.
The Flints, kin to Ned’s grandmother, sent word after Robb’s second nameday of trouble brewing. As far as she understood it, Lord Flint had arranged a betrothal for his niece to a son of House Knotts in exchange for six moons worth of meat and salt. The Knott son perished at the Trident but upon returning home, the Flint’s discovered their girl had fallen pregnant before they marched to war. The Knott’s refused to pay the agreed upon price because in their eyes the betrothal had been broken. Fights between the two Houses had already broken out, Ned was being called to ride and settle the matter.
The betrothal was one of the strangest things she’d ever heard. She pleaded with Ned to simply let someone else deal with the matter. Her father would never have dained to intercede so personally in the feuds of lesser lords. Ned explained that the Hill Clans were a different folk but loyal nonetheless. If he didn’t bring justice to the matter it could spark a feud between the two Houses. According to Maester Luwin, the last conflict in the mountains had taken months of bloodshed to quell.
Ned was gone for nearly a full moon, with only one raven relaying his arrival at the Flint’s home. Then silence. Another message arrived late, her heart froze when she learned that Ned had been injured. A brawl had broken out during a meeting between the two families. Three men had been injured and one killed. Ned had been accidentally struck in the back, aggravating a wound he’d taken at the Battle of the Bells. Her husband had recovered and then taken the heads of two murderers before arranging for half the betrothal price to be paid as agreed.
The Clansmen seemed satisfied and sent a stack of pelts back to Winterfell in gratitude. Her fear when word of his injury brought about another shock, the depth of her feelings for her husband. The Sept he commissioned, Robb, even the responsibility and respect he gave her had grown a love deep in her spirit. Catelyn was quite certain Sansa was conceived upon his safe return.
“Lady Stark?”
Catelyn turned to the older servant who had called out to her. Berta was in charge of the pantry and always kept a close watch on the food stores. It seemed a few too many wheels of cheese had been brought up for the celebration. As they walked, Catelyn gave instruction for a portion of the potatoes to be traded to make up for it.
Dealing with the pantry. At Riverrun, the most interaction she had with the kitchens and maids had been through the Steward. Veyne Poole was as competent a man as any, and he dealt with the larger part of Winterfell’s servants and assisted her in many duties. Tradition dictated though, that the kitchen and the maids were to be handled directly by Lady Stark. Old Nan had told her it was because the Starks took hospitality very seriously, and nothing less than the watchful eye of the Lady of Winterfell would suffice. It was comforting in a way, to have such a direct hand in her household. Though if there was a court, she doubted the tradition would last long.
“Lady Stark!”
Another interruption in the form of Septa Mordane and Septon Chayle.
“Is it not time for the girl’s lessons Septa?” She wondered.
Mordane sniffed disdainfully, “Today’s lessons would normally have been centered around the Seven-Pointed Star .”
That explained her attitude. Ned had convinced her that with Sansa nearly a woman grown and Arya’s fights with her teacher growing worse by the year, it couldn’t hurt for their lessons to be reduced. Instead, both her daughters could spend the occasional day learning at her side. It seemed fitting, Catelyn had been running Riverrun by the time she was thirteen. The decision led to an enjoyable change and she’d had the chance to start easing the tension between Sansa and Arya, a tension that had spiralled out of control under the watch of the Septa in front of her.
Mordane continued, “Septon Chayle and I wished to petition you.” She nudged Chayle forward.
He was a timid but polite enough man. “You see, Lady Stark, the Septa and I are concerned. Aside from yourself and a few servants from the keep, attendance to my sermons have been ebbing over the last few moons.”
“None of the converts from Wintertown have attended.” Mordane added.
“None?” Catelyn was surprised, she’d thought Winterfell’s Sept had a small but dedicated congregation.
The Septa was agitated. “I went down to ask after them a few days ago. Not ten minutes into my visit I caught a group of older dames, who I thought were the most eager worshippers, coming from some place in the woods.” Oh she was turning truly pink now. “They were happy to see me. They asked if I was going to visit the Godswood! Me, pray before a heathen tree!”
“Did you question them?” Cat was not happy with Mordane’s tone.
Chayle laid a calming hand on Mordane’s shoulder as she took deep breaths.
“No one would come right out and say it,” Chayle was frustrated, but not furious as Mordane was. “though I suspect it has something to do with the arrival of the Direwolves.” he explained.
“That savage has corrupted the people, I know it! I see him out and about, going from house to house. The boy thinks himself a Maester!” Her septa couldn’t contain herself today it seemed.
Catelyn discreetly checked the hallway for any of the servants and noticed a slip of a dress poking from one end. Someone was listening, she had to be very careful about this. Her response wouldn’t not be kept private.
“Septon Chayle, Septa Mordane. While I truly appreciate your dedication, you must not forget that this is the North. The roots of the Godswoods run deep in these lands. It certainly brought me joy that some of the smallfolk found peace with the Seven, but there’s no way we can force them to be devout.”
Her answer didn’t satisfy the pair.
“Lady Stark, I must insist that boy and those beasts be sent away. We were finally making progress, I know that if we truly pushed for it we could expand Chayle’s congregation.”
“There will be no talk of conversion in my house, Septa Mordane.”
Catelyn’s fierce rebuke caught both worshippers off guard.
“This is the North and perhaps it's time you two realized that. My husband’s people do not believe that the Gods rest inside a temple. The Gods are in the wind that blow their mills, the rivers that hold the fish, the trees that feed their fires.”
“Lady Catelyn, surely you have not lost faith?” Chayle was certainly shaken.
“Of course not, Septon. I pray every morning and give thanks every night. That will not change. You two must come to terms with the realities of life north of The Neck. We live in a land where the snows can bury whole villages. When faced with that, would it not seem folly that a man dressed in silk is the only way the Gods can speak?”
Mordane was purpling and Chayle was frowning, looking down at his well-kept coat, a gift from the Most Devout when he came North.
“I am content with my small worship. We have no need to worry about the politics or the decadence so easily found in the South.” Catelyn continued. “In the past few moons I have begun to see the work of the Seven around us.”
Beorn’s lessons, the few she had accompanied her children too had been interesting. He taught of the many facets of Northern History that none but a Maester would seek out. Her children were learning how the smallfolk farmed. How the various villages around Winterfell came to be, how they cooperated, and how they quarreled. They were also taught the wildly different traditions of the Old Gods, the way worship and tales changed from one castle to another. The openness of her children permitted her to learn about her husband’s faith in a way no servant or vassal had ever expressed. They knew she was of the Seven, and had long ago decided not to risk insulting her in some way.
“The Seven are not here, Lady Stark.” Mordane insisted. “This place has never received their touch. That is why we must harken to the Great Sept and the High Septon. We have a duty to them.”
Catelyn shook her head, in truth she disagreed. “I see the Crone’s touch when the elder servants give advice to their young charges. I see the Maid when a wedding is joined in Wintertown. I see the Smith when wind and snow are pushed back so homes can be rebuilt. I see the Warrior when the guards return home safe and whole. I see the Mother when the laughs of my children echo in the halls. And I see the Father when my husband brings justice and peace to his lands.” She looked Mordane in the eyes then, “I see all that without having a grand Sept, or boxes of jewels sent south.”
Mordane couldn’t seem to accept Catelyn’s words. She curtsied and marched off, dissatisfied. Chayle was lost in thought but bid her goodbye and said he’d be in the library. He muttered something about history having an answer.
Alone again, Catelyn takes a deep breath. She turned the corner and opened the door to her rooms where her guests awaited. Swallowing her fear, she smiled and walked in.